Dads word.

I never approved of the slow gagging, the grey smoke clogging my eyes and throat like the taste you never wish to savour. One end a spitting red roast fuming a factories choking cough and the other a misleading joke stained luminous white; of which dad holds between two large, grubby fingers as if it were gold. “When you gonna give up?” “Soon.” Soon. Soon the word will be printed on his head when they pull out a coal coloured sac layered with black soot and tell us that was his breath. That was his mind, poisoned, and then only another statistic buried under a mass of the forgotten, unfortunate deaths; all dragged in from the same polluted steaming boat. I wish my words pierced his skin like split memories, listen! Listen to my ‘deranged’ voice only wishing that magic ‘spliff’ does cause me no harm; let alone your tea stained teeth only baring the smile of an addicted man. When will I stop choking on your damn habit? When will my words get past your eyes only seeing a rose tinted glass, Step into reality dad, or will your ghost mourn over a predicted grave that could’ve been saved by simply listening?