Internal Bleeding Poem by Edwin Hopper

No thanks, I don't. No it's not what you think.
No. It wasn't me that's alcoholic.
When I was young, my father died of drink.

Blood black as ink, vomiting down the sink.
Till then, I was drunk. Just as prolific.
No thanks, I don't. No it's not what you think.

Dad's face seemed to wrinkle up and shrink.
Skin pale as snow. Not poetic or epic.
When I was young, my father died of drink.

The war hero was blind, and couldn't think.
Mum cried, at his dishonour, made public.
No thanks, I don't. No it's not what you think.

Me. Like Dad? Addictive genetic link?
I'm afraid. I'm just as imbecilic.
When I was young, my father died of drink.

Mum Died ten months later Life out of sync.
Cancer. Broken heart and melancholic.
No thanks, I don't. No it's not what you think
When I was young, my father died of drink.