The One Called Father

A vile critter,
Was the man I called father.
The drunkard,
The drug abuser,
Not a day was he sober.

He laid hands on mother,
Not to bless, but to batter.
Not a word, would she utter,
To provoke his anger.
She was an unwilling punching bag.

My brothers and sisters,
Did not fair better,
Against his ire.
It was always with displeasure,
I acknowledged him as my sire.

He was void of the word inspire.
Out of spite, I wished not, to be a father.
In the heart of this young master.
I wished him not,
Peace, in life, thereafter.