I didn't have the happiest childhood. My parents were both alcoholics when I was young, and though they took decent care of me, it wasn't the ideal "white picket fence" environment. Dysfunctional families are the norm these days, so it's nothing people haven't heard before.This particular poem, which I wrote in my teens, expresses what I saw as a major ill of society from observing my drunken parents, as well as several High School friends who became addicted to drugs. It reflects modern attitudes toward alcoholism and drug abuse, and my own feelings on the matter. I realize this may disturb those of you who are firing up a morning doobie or drinking your breakfast, and if that's the case I ask that you examine the source of your discomfort. Is it because of me, or a problem deep within your own heart?
It feels so good.
That's what they say
when they try to explain why
they do the things they do.
The pain is pleasure
to those partaking of
the things that despoil.
Turning this world into nothing,
but a pit of muddy water,
with primates drinking all the while.
It feels good when it's happening.
Short term gain is easier to see,
and more enjoyable for those of little mind.
They don't know what they do,
to those of us who don't partake
in their degenerate practices.
But it hurts.
It hurts this Earth.
Perhaps they know and just don't care.
Or perhaps they don't,
and that's what really hurts.
Is it not their fault?
It never seems to be these days.
No one to blame when blame is due,
and the fun is at an end.
Why don't they learn to help themselves,
and fess up to their crimes?
They want more.
You want more,
but you can't have any more.
For you know that it is wrong.
You shouldn't have had it
in the first place,
because you deserve better,
as do we all.
It feels so good.
That's what they say
When they try to explain why
they do the things they do.
But it feels so bad for the rest of us;
we suffer to survive.
It hurts.
It hurts this Earth.
Perhaps they know and just don't care.
Or perhaps they don't,
and that's what really hurts.
I grew up the same way. What a poem; wow. I feel inspired to go dig my journals from those days out of the basement. I thought for a long time I had packed that past into a neat little box; of course I have since dealt with it and have a good relationship with my father who quit drinking and felt horrible. I do not speak with my mother as she is still a source of pain for me.
ReplyDeleteThat's pretty much the way things have turned out for me, as well. My father sobered up years ago and is a major part of my life, while my mother never could overcome her own addictions. She died of cancer last August, and we never really settled things between us, which is sad.
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, I lost a lot my poetry from the school years. I loved it, too, just as I love seeing my writing style and sentiments have changed over the years. I have my poetry for about the past 10-12 years, and I reread it sometimes. Takes me right back to where I was ... fascinating, isn't it?!
ReplyDeleteLizzy Ford
Thanks for sharing Martin. I can completely relate and wrote a lot of stuff like this as a kid. Writing has always been an escape for me. :)
ReplyDelete~Melissa
Reflections on Writing