Poem #9

I fall on my knees begging for solution to the problems of my own making,
While I am praying on the cold tiles of bathroom, the priest,
Who represents nothing more than my father which messed me and then left,
Pours pure vodka, bought on sale, into my open mouth.

It tastes weird as the river I almost drowned,
As the rust-like essence of a gun,
And the pills I swallow every morning to make myself going,
I choke on them same as I choke on my emotions.

Who am I without all of my addictions?
Who am I without all of the sins - the blood on my hands?
Who am I without the shame and longing for death?
Who am I, if not my father?

I represent him and his sin of abusing others and substances,
I am him because I am the eldest child born from him,
The one who raised him, who comforted him, 
While he have never been here for me, not truly.

I am able to break free from one of the circles of hell,
But not to grow back my wings which he chopped down,
I am unable to fly away to live a life of someone I wish to be,
then I am supposed to die in order to be truly free.