Acid Test Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Drink was the mask for an inadequate provider,
this destructive road must end
before I'm certified out of my mind.
Don't worry about me, I know how to bleed
even though it hurts to breathe.

In a men's homeless hostel
I hear a dried out aluminum kettle,
disintegrating on the stove,
whistling while I'm passed out,
ten-count, drowning in my own tears.

Round after round you're losing everything—
your woman, your children, the house,
even a rough collie dog,
and leaving with only a grocery bag.

Shadow boxing and sparring
isn't a martial art for your own good.
A child becoming a boy
and then a broken man.