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Nov 2014
Mum has 15 drags on her cigarette.
The first drag, trying out for the first time,
the second drag, presenting friends into your relaxation.
The third drag, everything is calm,
the fourth drag, you realize it has to stop.
The fifth drag, small remarks become big irritations,
the sixth drag, you are disgusted because the remarks are true.
The seventh drag, just another one wouldn’t hurt,
the eighth drag, what’s the point of quitting now?
The ninth drag, your breath doesn’t smell quite the same,
the tenth drag, you hide underneath your coat.
The eleventh drag, you feel slowed down without,
the twelfth drag, yet your doctors say it’s better off without.
The thirteenth drag, you begin to wheeze,
the fourteenth drag, you collapse to the floor.
The fifteenth drag isn't really the final drag at all,
you’ll smoke a million cigarettes, more and more,
but it only seems to you as 15 more?
The fifteenth drag is finally taken,
Mum has lung disease, I am a failure.
I wrote this poem when I found out my mother had lung disease and a whole lot more horrific problems just because she couldn't drop the cigarettes, we tried help her quit but she just got hooked back on again. I just couldn't bare to see her smoke, it made me feel like I failed her,
more than her failing herself.
Louisa Coller
Written by
Louisa Coller  22/Non-binary/England
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