Nicotine

A poem about how I feel when I smoke and how having people around me who have smoked for 30 years has affected me. Idk, just thoughts

I love the way that cigarette smoke travels,

Floating upward, lighter than air yet weighed down by the bones of its clergy.

To say that it's not addicting would be foolish, but me, being born into embers,

Can say that I wouldn't call my relationship with nicotine addictive.

The hug machine was invented by Temple Grandin for individuals like herself who suffer from autistic disorders.

Autism disorders have profound effects upon social interactions and sensitivity to sensory stimulations,

Often making it impractical for them to turn to other human beings for comfort.

And so Temple designed the hug machine to compress and squeeze the user in a simulated embrace.

My point being that when I had no one to turn to, I had cigarettes.

However, I am isolated, not autistic.

But when smoke caressed my windpipe for the first time, making my lungs contract,

I felt calm, warm, at peace,

My own simulated embrace.

Death does not scare me, as I have held it in my fingertips long before any cigarette.

Addicted, like I said before, is the wrong word to describe how I feel.

Although, nicotine and I have not yet left the "honeymoon phase".

Our late night dances in the refrigerator light are still mutual:

Nicotine needs to burn my lungs and I need to feel something, anything. 

Heat.

I often warm my fingers on the glow of the ember.

Fingers.

The first time I caught a whiff of my fingers after smoking brought me back to when my mother stroked my face after a bad dream.

Even at age 7 tobacco could bring me tranquility.

I do however fear the day when I tire of the dance and stumble,

Blind, for the refrigerator light is stained black and I am left with just the glow of the ember,

Just enough light to see my burned fingertips but not enough to see the ground.

I fear the day when my children see me cough until I am weak and breathless, 

Hand to my mouth, the smell of tobacco filling my nose as I struggle to find oxygen.

But that day will come nonetheless, and my old friend nicotine might just kill me.

But, like I said, I am not addicted.

I am captivated.

Although something in the back of my mind makes my stomach uneasy,

For there is a fine line between being captivated and being captive.

Author's Note

Doesn't really have any solid structure but it's how I feel: A little unstable.

Reviews

[Cyndy Robinson]

Personally I think Poetry is Creative and about anything goes. I am not sure you have to have any structure. I am sure some other people might disagree with me. But to me Poetry is like a camera and it captures its subject matter in a picture all can see through your perspective. And you have done that here

[Mackenzie Knitter]

Thank you! I was worried it might come off messy and unorganized :)

[Cyndy Robinson]

Who cares? Your expression is clear. I don't write for anyone else but me. Its great if others like it, but we are all different, not required. LOL

[Mackenzie Knitter]

Thanks, I really appreciate it :)

[JustaManWithaPen]

It may be a bit tough to follow but either way you get the message and poetry is an artwork so there isn't a right or wrong way good imagery keep up the good work!

[Mackenzie Knitter]

Thanks for the comment