I wish I could tell you a story of victory, of a life that’s not wasted and gone by.
But I think this battle’s been lost, I’m slowly wasting good bye.
I’m still alive with no health problems.
Or it’s maybe because I think of doctors as money grubbing golems.
13 years I’ve been chained in bondage, 13 years I’ve tried to break out. But I can’t. I’m too weak.
My fingers shudder when I am emotional. My breathing stutters when quandaries seem perpetual.
I tried quitting, 20, 30, 40 times. To tell you the truth, I don’t know how many times I’ve already tried.
This is the whole truth and I’m sad, it’s something I just cannot let go.
I’m a smoker and I will smoke tomorrow.
Maybe you aren’t and that’s good we both know.
In my struggles, I’ve seen people waste. I even know of a person with one and one half of a lung who’s still alive today.
I remember the times, when I was strong, able to place 4th in a school of more than 400. Running, lifting heavy weights, these were the things I used to be able to do. But the neighbors smoke often in a third world country what is a fella to do?
They burn their garbage and I’ve tried to bring it up.
But who cares, there is no garbage truck!
Thus I stress and breathe their filthy pollution and I say to myself, I might as well smoke myself at least I also enjoy the temporary absolution!
We Will All Die Someday…
This is what I always say.
I’ve known of people who don’t smoke, who departed too early one day.
I’m 31 but I look 40.
If I smell you smoking, I’ll reach for my own 20.
It’s a battle between a nicotine addled mind and what’s left of my sanity.
I wish I could sue Philip Morris and Marlboro too.
But I can’t, because I have no money and we can’t sue them true.
“What about the tobacco farmers?” – is what they say.
Of jobs and taxes that feed the government day by day.
Yes, we will all die someday. Maybe later, maybe tomorrow or maybe 20 years down the road.
I smoke Marlboro lights Gold. I’ve been smoking 1 pack everyday.
It’s not much compared to my dad’s 3 to 5, but hey he died when he was 49, I was then 25.
So, why am I here. I failed smoker making a mess with words. Maybe I am hoping that somehow, I could stop one day.
See my daughter’s wedding and kiss my grandchild’s toe.
See the birds flying in a smoke free world bereft of woe.
This poem’s horrible, it’s not a poem too I know.
But somewhere, somehow, in this little mind of mine, I hold fast to a miracle that would stop me from smoking somehow.