Sad But Ture

He'd open up the front door, and on the
couch I'd cringe;
for I knew that my Dad, had once again,
been on a drinking binge.

Who would be the chosen one, to
receive one of his beatings;
I'd close my eyes and pray to God,
'Please let him leave us sleeping'.

But he'd always beat up someone, either
me, my brother's or Mom;
for when my Dad was drunk there was,
a storm before the calm.

I can still hear him yelling, 'Woman,
get your' lazy butt in here';
and my Mom would always comply to him,
I surmise mostly out of fear.

I would rather have taken the beatings,
for they didn't hurt that bad;
what hurt me more than anything, was
to see my Mother so sad.

It was always the same, each and every
night, when my Dad would come home drunk;
sometimes I'd sleep in the bushes, or
in our old pick-up truck.

He never had a job, nor ever worked a
day in his life;
I can still remember hearing my Mother,
weeping softly into the night.

To go to bed hungry was one thing, but
to know your eight children as well;
had no food in their rumbling tummies,
to Mom that was worse than Hell.

What money my Dad did managed to make,
doing odd jobs here and there;
was always spent on alchohol, our
cabinets' were always bare.

My Mom did her best to feed us,
welfare helped us here and there;
then I got a job and I helped Mom,
and we weren't in such despair.

I look back on my childhood, it was
tough yet it made me strong;
Dad died from drinking rubbing alchohol,
it was all he could get his hands on.

by Ruth warren

Other poems of WARREN (149)

Comments (1)

What a powerful statement about the affects of alcoholism on the life of the family. It is nice that today we are speaking out more and more about this and providing more help and resources for families that need it. Thanks for your writing and heartfelt poem. Sincerely, Connie Webb