since I wrote my first rhyming words
and attempted to call them poetry?
They seem to burn down so quickly
when you get to getting on a roll.
Sitting abandoned...
...on my lips
...between my fingers
...smoldering in forgotten ashtrays
...and burning holes in my clothes
I’d venture to say
hundreds times thousands...
Eleven-thousand-seven-hundred & seventy
I tell ya’
there’s just nothing like it,
sitting back,
flickin’ my generic bic...
scratching my head
and taking a drag while
scratching a word
and taking a drag that’s
scratching the surface
and taking a drag it’s
scratching that itch
and taking a drag
Then I realize
as I squint thru smoky filmed eyes
that I am done writing
right on time with my smoke
and alas
another crappy poem is born
as the crumpled butt dies
crushed
in an overflowing
stolen hotel ashtray
by Johnny Olson

Born and raised in Chicago, lost and found in Dallas, and currently on a swirling journey as an autodidactical painter, poet and writer. Johnny is also the mad editor, webmaster and host of MadSwirl.
I've been there. You reminded me. Thanks. Frank Kelly
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