Smoking

A few years ago I wrote this bitter poem about my grandmothers smoking habit.

Coughing and coughing,
You're gasping for air.
I cry for you to leave it, 
to throw it on the ground,
I watch as you light it with that poisonous flair.
You see the despair drip-dropping from my face, 
You don't care.
I remind you that every breath you inhale is one step closer to your death chair.
"You're going to kill yourself!", I shout at the top of my lungs.
You just stand there with a glassy haze,
You act like you don't know I'm here,
But you can hear me, I know you can,
I'm only inches away from your blackened ash pan.
You Just Don't Care.
The temptation is far past strong.
There's no doubt you're addicted,
No doubt in my mind.
But that's no excuse!
You could have turned away on that first day,
Back in time.
Honestly, It's to yourself whom you're not being fair.
You're not killing me.
I stand back from your toxic air.
You know you're hurting yourself, you hear it from way too many people,
But I'm tired of seeing you being put through this shame,
This pain, this unnecessary game,
and when you die, maybe I shouldn't care.
I warned you once, twice. 
I've warned you more...
Sometimes fair is just
Fair.

Reviews

[Roger Turgeon]

A little departure from your love, God and country writings. At the end I think it fair we acquiesce to the simple vices that both sustain and take our loved ones

[Meliss@k]

Thanks so much for your review Roger