children's creative crayons
must be encouraged to write poetry
a splash of blue  
a dollop of green
a hint of yellow
a touch of pink
this being an innovative
use of ink

let their artistry
blend the colours of words
telling an engrossing tale
about rainbows and rosella birds

fostering a child's interest
in poetic art
shall compose a life-long
expression to impart  

a palette of coloured crayons
ready for exploration
writing verses of boundless
imagination

"I know what you're thinking,"
She said with a grin,
"Not every story has
A happy ending."




"Once upon a time
Two children traveled
Apart at first,
Then a story unraveled.

He went by car
As gypsies often do.
State by state
Not knowing where to.

She traveled not as often,
Every few years.
Fate kept them apart
And yet some how near.

Destiny would have it,
They would finally land;
In the same place
But with a very bad plan.

They met in a courtyard
Decaying but sweet;
Here is where kids
Became lovers to meet.

Fate played tricks
That made them fall away;
And some years passed
Before they saw another day.

And life went on
That sad "come & go"
To repeat together and apart
But she didn't know.

She couldn't see the future,
But she can see the past.
They never had something
That was meant to last.

They had a marriage,
A daughter, a son,
But he was no husband or father,
Just a gypsy boy on the run.

Off into the wind,
He came as he pleased,
Sometimes with lies of love;
Fate always teased.

Destiny frowned with
A heart of despair,
Further away they drifted
Yet always so near.

They didn't rekindle,
The children did grow
Without a father
To love or to know.

Three hearts went on
And found love of their own
Because Mom made the broken house
And loving, happy home."



"That's how it ends.
I warned you," she smiled.
"Real happy endings
Only come once and a while."

When I was young
I used to think
Love was as simple
As that instant "click"

When I was older I met someone
We'd talk for hours
We'd talk about everything
It felt comfortable

But soon enough
Paradise began to slip away
We had plenty of love, but we lacked time
With a heavy heart we parted

And then I met an old man
He told me this, too late
"Regarding love, two things matter:
the man, and the time you both invest"

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.

Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.

They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.

But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.

I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.