his sense of failure

is palpable

seeping from his pores

like booze

the morning after

a hard drunk

it permeates

his being

choking any chance

at happiness

real or imagined

~Melanie Thomason


Filed under Poetry

21 responses to “Failure

  1. nokindofmagic

    Morning after in one of its more disturbing forms. Reading this just after waking up (when the night wasn’t particularly welcoming) made me stare at the ceiling without the ability to name my feelings.

  2. My dad woke up like this everyday of his life – or at least once he started drinking – at age 10. This piece brings to mind his face – I remember it still all too well and the way he looked in the morning…

  3. Powerful writing Melanie. Failure weighs heavy in the lines and a sense of hopelessness follows all the way through to the very end. Amazing work.

  4. Reblogged this on Rethinking Life and commented:
    Melanie wrote this powerful and amazing poem.

  5. I saw this on Gigi’s blog and had to come over here and tell you well done. My Pa was a drinker and towards the end of his life he didn’t drink. My mom blamed all the problems on that but then she was controlling, some people do not mix well together especially when alcohol is involved that damage it does is unbelievable. I think! Wonder Melanie

  6. Failure infects, terrifies, and rips out peoples souls. Fear of failure steals your goals.

  7. mk

    You have chosen a perfect metaphor for the poison of judging ourselves. My step-father was an alcoholic. I have seen the look. Defeat, shame, pain.

    A powerful poem. Thank you.
    (a visitor by way of Gigi’s blog)

  8. Your words resonate personally for me. Seeing loved ones sink right before our eyes, praying for an intervention, praying as children that if only we were better children. Growing, leaving, and as we did, holding to that sick fear daily, the one in the pit of our stomachs. Broken and torn b y the dreams and prayers never realized. Receiving the dreaded phone call, the accident, the two dead, and giving thanks no innocent were victims amidst the mass of the destruction.
    And then the brutality of guilt that we had silently wishing for the end, and realizing that all those youthful prayers were also hiding the subconcious of wishing they would just die.
    The aftermath, the dysfuntional family attempting to bring our thoughts outside from the depth of the darkness we padlocked them into, admiting, finally and mutually, we were not the bad children, the responsible parties, but the victims of something beyond our human capacities or abilities.
    Taking our own turn to damn our own frailties, striving to find how to weave a beautiful world out of all that chaos, hoping to break a cycle. Living each day as a new day to work on our own flaws, as we learn to forgive those who caused the mayhem. Understanding their humanity was as fragile as ours is.

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