I'm out of smokes and nicking like a mo
But cannot get another pack until
I write this fricking sonnet - that's fo sho...
And right now it's like climbing up a hill
In winter through six feet of snowy powder,
Uphill, both ways, while on my to school;
Manhatten rather than New England chowder...
And pretty soon I just might lose my cool.
I'm sure that if I wanted I could quit...
This poem - not my smoking - don't be dumb.
But something keeps me going... what is it
That makes me write until my brain is numb?
Perhaps we'll never know how many licks,
But I know when it's time to get a fix.
Created: Apr 18, 2014todd68976 Document Media