Smoke

My hands smell like cigarettes and pages,

Funny,

I haven't smoked in a long time.

My cheeks burn from ten dollar wine,

How that pen grips differently when I am alone.

I often wonder if Vonnegut could even grasp a ledger,

After his fourth glass or if his hands

Reeked of typewriter ink and solitude.

Even Emily wore it at her wrists and neck,

Splashing it on for her walls and panes,

My hands smell like cigarettes and pages,

Funny,

I haven't smoked in such a long time.

A Letter of Resignation

I apologize, but it seems to me that I am not cut out for this after all,

I was not created to be created,

I have created myself to do just that.

It seems that this track lane is indeed shorter,

But too close to the center for my comfort.

It seems that the smog of this city chokes the life back into me,

Even though it is artificial.

I am not cut out for this after all it seems,

So with this I leave you to pursue

Blues and Yellows and Greens.