The Alcoholic

The Alcoholic An hour or so, but my mind keeping looking back to a past as trying to find the moment when things went wrong and contentment escaped. It easy to remember simple things like when a winter my mother couldn´t get the fire going and through in my wooden fire truck, swearing at me for crying. But that is not the problem, because I understood when the room warmed and frost roses on windows thawed. Adults can hurt children more than they understand, when in 1945 my father came home from the sea, I was sick in bed, tuberculosis, my father pretended he didn´t know this sickly thing on the sofa and said who’s child is this? And ever since my life has been blighted…. Yes I know, you will say put the past behind you. But my sense of inadequacy was so strong I found as an adult that the only thing that made feels equal was alcohol. So I became drunk, if a tame one I never drink during the day but in the evening when despair knocks on my mind I drink to still the voice telling my I´m a fraud a working class fool thinking he is a poet. Alcoholism is not easy it doesn´t really exist as it is an indicator of the unresolved. I write this and it is ten in the morn but already I´m counting the hours when I can have a drink.