Drinking dulls the pain,
Feeding the same worn excuse,
Permitting abuse,
Damaging family and friends,
Leaving no external scars.
Yet wounds just as real
Bleed, becoming infected,
Contagious with time,
Perpetuating sickness
For generations to come.
.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Demons, of the mind or real
Are they not one and the same?
It all depends on how you feel,
Perception is the name of the game.
~
A fact to one, to another fiction
It matters your point of view.
A passing fad or tragic addiction,
Apparent in what we say and do.
~
It makes no difference the chosen vice,
Whether outside or so ingrained.
Once affliction takes hold, you never think twice,
They are illness’ one and the same
~
Bite down on your tongue the next time you speak
About thinks you know nothing about.
The outlook for some, no matter how bleak
Is a demon they’re fighting to rush out.
~
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Waking to the rhythmic white noise
Television’s twinkling salt and pepper blur
Foil covered rabbit ears like periscopes
Reflect his fractured image…almost blinding
It hurts to sit up straight
Back hunched from decades of labor
Crumbs drop like snow from his cardigan
“What did I eat?”, he mumbles on deaf ears
As gnarled and twisted hands
Brush his remnants to the floor
Feed for roaches and rats that call this home
Day and time are of little concern
What does it matter.
Tormented knees crack
Perched unsteadily beneath him
All he can do is shuffle holding on for balance
The refrigerator fights back as he opens it
The dim light only blackens the mouldy fresco
Decorating the walls and shelves.
Spoiled milk curls the nose
“Been around awhile.” he whispered
Paying it no more mind
Warm beer will have to do
The crack of the tab and the “pusssssh”
Join the metronomic shuffle of his stocking feet
Moaning, he sits
Joints aching from medicine he can’t afford
Alcohol will have to do
Each sip provides little relief
Tired of living his eyes grow heavy
Sleep returns…to the rhythmic white noise
And the televisions salt and pepper blur
~
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
By D. R. DiFrancesco
Crass and cranky,
Scarcely a kind word to anyone,
Including himself,
Bitter and hateful,
Blaming everyone for his shortcomings,
Except for himself,
The family,
The job,
Restraining him from achieving success.
Never without a glass,
Always a glass of amber in hand,
Served to enhance his misery.
Another drink,
“I’ll have just one more”, he would say,
The one we called Jekyll and Hyde.
The children loved him,
But children didn’t like him,
Too scared and too young to confront.
A wife living for better or worse,,
Traumatized into silence,
Who would he be when he came home at night?
A frustrated virtuoso,
Sculpture, oils, watercolors, pastels,
So much talent needlessly thrown away.
On a stormy day all was lost,
His family, his art and his life,
Sadness in a bottle his solitary friend.
Did the Lord,
Or did his demons call him home,
A mystery until we join our maker,
Destructive and demoralizing,
Living under bourbons shadow,
Souls touched that will never be healed.
Dom DiFrancesco 