Cigarette Confessional

She draws with graphite

and charcol and pens

I draw with my words

that is all I know and have ever known. 

My grandma teaches me with

paints on her lap

I was a "messy painter," not a

"good artist."

I do not know where my words came from.

No one in my family knows

though they guess from the nightly

bedtime stories. But

I like to think

They are all mine.

I am selfish with them, just like my eyes

Blue and gray and green and gold

Came from two parents with eyes bland as coffee,

the same color too. But they say I stole them

from my grandpa on my dad's side. 

I steal a lot of things, or so they tell me.

Words, attitudes, accents, faces

So then I figured, why not a kiss?

Why not candy? Why not for snacks after school?

So I did, just to see if I could. 

I could. 

But after I passed on my skills which I had thought

were obvious, I grew guilty of these games.

I quit that, and my little bit of smoking,

to persue a career in theivery and lies

one that glorifies lies,

and uses stolen goods for the people's good

and I can only hope that they

oublier mes errours

and allow me to use my skills

for the good of them

and the world.

This poem is about: 
Our world


Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression. Always let poetry fill your life. Keep expressing your heart.   

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741