Echoes Of A Broken Home

From a young age, I witnessed the harm it did,
The bitter brew that tore my mother’s soul .
It stole my father’s strength, left him adrift,
A man once whole, now broken in the rift.

I watched my mother, her eyes heavy with pain,
Hoping one day he’d break free from the chain.
But the village knew him, drowning in his vice,
A tank always full, but never enough to suffice.

He failed to guide us, to teach us with care,
Lost in the haze of his endless despair.
Every day the same, a constant refrain,
Never sober, trapped in the stain.

We became the village’s whispered shame,
Our family’s suffering, an unspoken flame.
From childhood, the spirits were my fear,
A poison that haunted, that still lingers here.

The nights were long, filled with rage and cries,
Underneath the moonlight, a child’s broken sighs.
His promises faded like the fog at dawn,
And in my heart, the wound never withdrawn.

Yet in the silence, I learned to survive,
Even as the shadows whispered “You’re not alive.”
I carried the weight, though the world couldn’t see,
The scars of a child who longed to be free.