Tuesday, 29 December 2009

A Regretful Reflection -

As it nears the new year many make promises, vows and plans they often don't keep. Some of these promises are as simple as getting more exercise, eating less or recycling more - something normal and unimportant. This come new year is one where I am having to tear a hole in my heart - a hole the shape a father figure should fill. I do have a father although sadly he no longer deserves the title and I have told him so in two heart wrenched pages of words so he knows how I feel and knows why I can no longer recognise him as my 'dad' anymore. Those close to me will know the reason behind this - many (if any) who read this now won't. That is why I am reposting a poem I wrote during my first year at University which really sums up for the me the past 6 no 10 years even of misery my so called 'dad' has caused me, my family and others who cared for us. So when you read this poem please reflect on your own fathers and count yourself lucky to have at least a fairly average one and not a rotten apple as mine is. For my true father - the one who loved us all and actually meant it when he said 'his family is his life' died - departed my home and my heart many, many years ago.


Husband, Father, Drunk.


The stab of the screw causes the cork to jettison with a pop.

The crystal ring and slosh as the poison is poured into the glass.

A colour deeper than blood.

He licks his pale lips eager for the taste on his tongue, to feel it in his mouth and body.

The tense raging hunger, need, desire and longing is finally quenched,

For another hour or more.


He returns to his chair before the TV, turning it on

With a determined press of a button on the controller that never leaves his table.

It is the only sense of sane order left to him, the one thing he still has control over.

The wide screen jumps into life with the vibrant colour and vigorous energy of fireworks.

That force reminds him of his lost and wasted youth.

The news and weather again and again and again and again. News 24 rules his attention.

The global disasters, famines, bombings and corrupt politics flicker

Over his glazed grey eyes, watching the world spin and change.

A world he no longer feels part of, a world he thinks no longer needs him.

All are excuses, reasons, motives,

as feeble as the hand that lifts the poison to his mouth once more.

To take one more sip, one more mouthful,

One more glass, one more bottle

Empty.


This is what it has come to. His days spent slumped before the TV.

His body crumbling and withering like a tree split apart by lightening. Beyond saving.

The poison that is so delightful claiming more of his soul, his spirit, his mind, his body and his life.

A life he will not fight for even though he has everything to die for.

Erasing the person he once was. Without any sign of defiance, just simple surrender.

The poison makes his heart, mind, and eyes blind to what he has. What he’s losing.

It has washed his heart black, making it as hollow and cold as each bottle he drains.


He appears oblivious to the pleading looks of his children,

The tears in his wife’s eyes.

All hoping, praying, wishing, waiting,

For him to change.

To be the father that used to laugh, his eyes once filled with happiness.

To be the husband that used to smile, a heart once filled with love.

That man has long since left their home and their hearts.

His soul leaves them contained in the empty bottles they put out to recycle.


That man now sits in my father’s chair but is not my father.

Just a reflection, a look alike, bitter and resentful towards everything.

A ghost that haunts us with misery, shame and pain.

A perfect stranger that we simply call Dad but acts nothing like him.

2 comments:

  1. Hello

    you have a really nice blog here friend, congratulations, glad we met, this poem brings back unhappy memories to me as well as my dad not an alcoholic but he liked his drink, very clear and concise graphically put poem, well done..

    ReplyDelete
  2. beautiful blog,
    inspiring poem.

    ReplyDelete

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