Sagepaper

I struggled for years to quit smoking. I damaged my body more for all the failed attempts. I gained weight when I tried to quit. It had been my habit to lose it again before my next stab at abstention. Alas, I married a physician. He was so alarmed that I coughed-up blood that he kept pushing me to quit again as soon as I failed. So, at last, I became a very obese non-smoker. Several months later, now, I am again a smoker and only slightly less obese. I don't think my health can withstand much more repair.

I tried to write poetry tonight that I could post here. Not to my surprise, I produced nothing worthwhile. It has been a long time since I have tried to compose a verse. It will take patience to regain my pen. Even if I were better technically now, I would not have written anything worthwhile. As you can see in the paragraph above, I'm not very happy tonight. I think each of us is capable of committing our own misery to verse. That doesn't make us all poets. In the past, I have been most prolific when depressed, but all those pages are filled with stuff I'd be too ashamed to claim.

I have asked for help in battling the return of my smoking. There is almost none to be had. I requested a blessing for the sick from my home teacher. Alas, I lack the faith for that alone to work. Really, I feel like Tom Dooley. Because of my respiratory problems, smoking blights my future. My life will be much shorter than it might have been. Faced with death, although less immediately than Tom Dooley, there isn't much to do but hang down my head and cry.

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you're bound to die