Caricamento in corso...

Saving Father

The ignorant fool, across the table from me
Is intoxicated quite thoroughly
Laughing and giggling, with all of his might
At a joke he had heard at the start of the night
I’m passed my limit; I’m at my wits end
I do not like him, I will not pretend
Now the funny thing is, I know him quite well
I’m the fruit of his loins whose suffering in hell
From his moaning protests at the food he is given
He brings out the worst in me, makes me hell bent and driven
To destruction, despair, disaster and danger
Yet he appears so harmless, like a baby in a manger.
I pull him aside, and say “enough is enough”
Whilst attempting to prize the liquor filled cup.
This isn’t easy, his hand grips it strong
He distances himself, and waddles along
He sits at the bar, with his jolly little face
as I retreat to my chair and cower in disgrace.
An old codger is he, 55 to be exact.
Yet he acts like a teenager experimenting with smack.
You think I’m being up tight and stingy,
Most say “let the man have a drink”
But when ‘having a drink’ is the only activity of the day
You kind of understand why I’m not okay.
The pain he inflicts, is not visible to the eye
For its psychological abuse
To my overly fragile mind
And so for his health and for mine too
I do the only thing that I can possibly do
I call for reinforcements,
Send him to alcoholics anon
For this hurtful, unbearable life of mine, I just could not carry on.
Sixth months down the line, he is a different man.
No longer wallowing in self-pity, he does the best he can.
I no longer find him annoying, I no longer fear him in drink
My mind is not so fragile anymore… I think.
The names he had called me still linger, in the icy air
I suppose he did the damage, its gone past the point of repair.
Yet I can look him in the eye, and feel a tinge of pride
At how far we have come together, I will stand by his side
I can now call him father; I’ve found him, saved him, at last.
Striving through these bitter times has been worth every verbal lash
I’ve won this long, hard battle, left with scars, to remind him and me,
What the alcohol did to him, what he came to be
But if he sips from the devils cup once more,
I now have the courage to show him to the door.

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