Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

the first untitled

Poetry By: cahill
Poetry


alcoholism


Submitted:Feb 1, 2009    Reads: 64    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


Yesterday, I looked behind me

and saw 18 years of distilled emotions,

To see that their progress is slow,

Yet they are not forgotten

'mid frantic rages

their bottle spills,

But their cries are outdone

by the screams of another,

As a fist hits into another stupid, angry, stupid wall.

This empty bottle spins

what a bad religion;

Spins beside an unmoving hand,

Cold - finally past.

"Life should not be this hard"

in the melodrama

of post pub schlock fests,

What it is that I am, I am.

The blunt, eerie, edged, ending

could forsake a collapse of it all,

And I will smile when I fall.

Yet war continues on the front,

We observe it now,

After years of seeing nothing,

It is not what you thought.

Come closer my dears,

And I will tell you how,

We fight ourselves.

The war never left this homely shore,

The war never slammed out the front door.

It is now as it has always been,

Within me.

A conflict against what breaches or

escapes our control,

A struggle to survive from day to day.

And never looking back again.





0

| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.