destroying our own lungs
seems a joyous communion;
we ask for lights,
bum cigarettes, block
open doorways, spreading soot
in spring air,
inhaling the dust
of death,
and laughing to display
our yellow teeth,
our souls not bothered
by destruction, yet
attaching
the patch seems somehow
more polite, rescuing
children from bronchial
attacks, and prolonging
our own lives
for one more sunset,
one more breath,
one more glimpse
of what we
might have been.
I used those patches but it only made me smoke more and my father died gasping for air in 1983. I stopped smoking then and have not lit up since but I have friends who smoke all day long. Their child has asthma and they wonder why they have to take him to the hospital. A very truthful poem here.
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addictive, your words...
almost as strong as nicotine! :) wish i'd never started...too damn hard to quit.
(((HUGS))) and love, karla. :)
Happy Clappy Good New Year !!
Love Tinka