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.

What happened to her, Khai?
Is she alive, is she amongst angels?
Which was the reason why
she chose a road so dangerous?

I know, she did it for the sake of me.
I’m the vision in her dreams
and her only wish was to set me free,
if again I could make her beam.

But I can’t  sleep, dear Khai,
The tears ooze out of my eye;
Sometimes I really wonder why
She did so much for me to be free?

In a silky forest
In a shape of a golden rose
Wandered back and forth
Waved her forgiveness
Blessed me with her mercy
With the gift of her soul
Madam, I have no soul left
My body is just a dust
I'm a graveyard...
I'm an immortal guest
I'm no one if not in her chest
Her treasured smile
Her lovely sight
Her heavenly touch
Her misty lips
Her eternal nest
I'm just a graveyard...
I'm just an immortal guest

alone.
I have no semblance of home.

There is nothing in
thickets
that covers
my disfiguration of a disposition.

I will lie
against the grain
and fight
for feigned love.

Nothing loves me
and I love nothing.

I am filing cabinets
infinitely.

I am faking smiles
ardently.

When the end comes
there will be teeth
separated from lips
genuinely.

♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓

Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.

Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.

Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.

Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.

A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.

If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.

Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.

Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.

Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).

Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch

compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.

(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”,  since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)

Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.

Always fighting,
From the inside,
Breaking the walls,
Of his former pride,

The scattered remains,
Washed by the rain,
Fading all hope,
Of easing his pain,

Searching the puddles,
Through autummal leaves,
Scratching the floor,
For broken beliefs,

Brushing the grain,
From trembling hand,
Mixed with dirt,
And goldless sand,

He crawls away..

Leaving his dignity,
And all that he gained,
In the gutterless hole,
For a moment of fame.

The value of art
Lies not in its beauty
But in its flaws
It's not about the perfection
But its mistakes
It's not about the art itself
Or the story it tells
The true value of art
Is how it makes you feel

Have you the slightest idea of what
It's like to have a person you love
dissolve into madness?

He dove in head first to a bottomless
pit of insanity.
& no matter how much we try.
We can't even send him a memory of
what the sun used to looks like.

Let's say you have a different outlook on life,
& the people you love most tell you it's not real.
That you're demented,
and everything you see as real isn't.

Then arises the question:
If perception is key, when does it become a reality?
What is real?

& if physics is correct,
this is all just a probability.
If so, then why does it hurt so much?