Question by mr peanut: I needed to write about alcoholism, how is this?
Please leave critique. Is it too prose like to be a poem?

Frozen

I see him sit there
wide eyed,
trying to be quiet,
as the room chokes with smoke,
filled with rot and laughter
And the child ever looking
in wonder,
through the beer stained glass.

Sometimes,
the father smiles, glances,
pats
the child’s golden locks
and then time dies
again.

The air is still,
the mind is still
the sky doesn’t bother, and the rain
falls forever as the wind mourns the night child,
and the moon and the stars weep for him,

they weep for us.

Best answer:

Answer by Tyler
I ain’t much edumicated in poetry, but it sounds good. The last line is particularly clairvoyant.

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