Papa Was A Druggie
By Heather G., Easthampton, MA
It happened again last night,
Words whispered by angels fell upon my ears.
A gentle hand upon my cheek to wipe away the tears.
Memories of yesteryears brought back to me once more,
Made me think back to my Papa, the one I adore.
The pain, the hurt, the joy, the love.
The four together like hand in glove.
Oh my Papa those last few days,
I told him it was time.
But from his habit he could not stray,
The need for power that's what made him stay.
Imprisoned by his own means,
But never enough bars to keep him clean.
The destruction to our world could easily be seen.
My mama, she would sit and cry.
My papa, always high in the sky.
He'd come down and back up again.
Papa said it helped sort his head.
Wasting away, the time, the money.
But to my papa everything was funny.
Even the way his nose was always runny.
The men with guns, the calls at night,
Then came the end of the dreadful fight...
As a gentle breeze swept through
the air I remembered it one time
more: My papa, my papa lying dead
upon the floor.
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