The Paper Cigarette

His chest squirms in impending desire,

His brain heavy with content to clear,

Their way out only too well known,

Habit itches his forefinger as he stifles a groan,

Followed by his thumb and middle one,

Three fingers fidget about apart but in unison,

As his other hand reaches out it hesitates for a second,

"Perhaps not now?," his heart pitches meekly,

And he casts a look at the work piled up*, vacillating slightly,

But he grabs the thin cylinder before his mind replies,

And he surrenders to the will of his thirsty fingers -

Which grab it in a frenzy to slake their hunger,

Holding it a shade too well,

Placing it at its rightful place of dwell,

Maneuvering it swiftly,

As he lets his thoughts drift.

As the pen scrawls his thoughts down,

He grips it in tightly, bent with a frown,

His thought currents flow from head and heart,

Through his arm onto the thin chart,

The cigarette scribbles rapidly, struggling in vain,

Hurtling ahead to catch up with his racing mind,

A phrase in a book, another on a bill,

Some on his arm, and even on his table,

He sighs in relief as he empties his ink,

Taking a break, stopping to think,

The contents of his mental vessel now spilt,

He's done, finally, and free to rest,

At least until another thought fills his mind,

Perhaps similar, or of a different kind,

It was a marvel, yes, but would others ever know?

That writing was a compulsion, not a talent for show,

An addiction, a disease, an irresistible urge,

To capture and pen down fleeting thoughts that surge,

And that, at times, the pen-canvas fails to record,

An idea that flickers and dies, especially when tired?

Would they know it's a feat that could come and go,

That writing wasn't by demand but thoughts that could flow?

That though today his work was fresh and novel,

They would, one day, become rusty and stale?

He fears it when alone,

Letting out a soft moan,

They demand another, cheering him on,

While he waves and smiles but cringes within,

 He locks himself, with his paper and pen,

Ignoring the fear, that forever haunts his den.

*The fleeting thought shimmers temptingly

The crux of this poem was written on 27.10.2016 at 2:55am, at C504.

Significant edits, along with putting in a rhyme scheme were made on 31st Oct, 2016 (post lunch). Completed by 4:20pm. It took quite some time, distributed over more than two hours.