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 aluminium 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.

Stepping toe to toe with your inner self,
the unfurnished truth in the mirror,
even you yourself despise.
Surviving early bouts of pneumonia
in an attic room,
so master how to box clever—
even a broken mattress
has a few good springs.

Physically, it hurts
not to have a title, a belt—
still the tough punk no one can stand.
Acid test: we all love and fight, then burn.