Death By Addiction

Those mutilated claws They tore her apart Ripped her away from my firm grasp Without considering my heart Her beautiful soul no longer visits me In the smoke-filled kitchen every Christmas Eve She is nowhere to be found in the heat of July When the fireworks burst through the black glass of the sky If I ask for her warm, perfect tamales She is not there to remind me to ask “please” So when you think about accepting that tobacco-filled disease Realize that your future granddaughter won’t be pleased Because when your addiction succeeds You won’t be around to fill her needs And when you can’t bake away her sorrows Your cigarette won’t be worth her painful tomorrows.