I guess I am supposed to write down how I feel. 

 

I guess this is supposed to help me cope with who you are. 

 

I keep sitting here watching my cursor blink, unmoving.

 

I have so many thoughts, but no way to get them on paper.

 

I catch myself daydreaming about what I'll do if I lose you. 

 

I catch myself not paying attention when I'm driving and drifting into the other lane.

 

The thing about addiction, is you don't see it.

 

You don't have to feel the slap of your rude words.

 

You don't have to see yourself stumble around, and fall over.

 

Whining, Yelling, Angry at everyone who loves you. 

 

We just keep asking Why? 

 

Grandma & Grandpa question themselves, "What did we do wrong?"

 

How fair is that to them?

 

Look at you, Look at us. You may be hurting, but we are hurting more.

 

We don't numb every feeling with Alcohol, we don't take a sip of Vodka and forget.

 

I can't say that I hate you, I can't say that I wish you were gone. 

 

Disappointed, Hurt, Angry, Crestfallen.

Disheartened, Horrified, Aching, Confused.

 

My brain doesn't understand, and neither does my heart.

 

I look at you and know that you're supposed to take care of me and instead I am taking care of you.

 

I am so jealous of people who get to spend time with their mom. 

 

Shopping, Going to A Movie, Talking to them about their day.

 

Instead I get to help you off the ground, stop you from screaming, hitting, and biting when you have had too much to drink.

 

You think it's not that serious. You think you have it under control.

 

But, your family, doesn't. We know you have no idea what you're doing.

 

You are going to destroy your body, one organ at a time.

If you haven't already. 

 

That kind of destruction isn't something that can be fixed.

 

What will you do, if one day, you have one drink too many.

 

What will you do, if one day, you go to sleep and never wake up?

 

Is this how you want to be remembered?

 

A drunk. An Alcoholic. Drug Addict. 

 

You will be remembered for your addictions. 

 

The good things you did for Cameron and I are so far gone, my poor little brother.

 

Guess what? Now he smokes weed, now he drinks. He's seventeen.

 

What am I supposed to do if he turns out like you?

 

I try so hard not to worry, but I can't help it. 

 

Not many understand, But how could they?

 

How could anyone possibly understand what it feels like to have the person that supposed to be taking care of them disappear.

 

To now be taking care of the one, who should be caring for you?

 

I don't know if you will ever recover from this, and I don't know if I ever will either.

 

I have no way to end this poem, of my thoughts. 

 

Everything is still current.