Invisible Dreams, Lost at Sea

shewritespoetry:

I inhale the smoke that curls out of the Pall Mall,

Placed precariously between two of my shaky fingers.

I inhale the acrylic colors as I add another stroke

of sloppy paint to the cheap canvas that stares blankly.

I inhale the bittersweet aroma of the tea newly poured,

watching the steam rise and swirl above the chipped mug.

I take one more breath as I analyze this situation.

What have I become?

A stereotype?

So be it.