PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Why do I clutch, so tightly,

the poison?

Maybe because it

kills the noise but...

...where is it coming from, anyway,

and why should I care?

For years,

the inebriated haze

has made

for worry-free stares...

...from where I sit:

Back against wall,

bottle in hand.

Lips dried from practicing monologues

to an imaginary crowd.

But as drunken diction

saunters out a foolish smile,

I momentarily ponder -

       Is this addiction

       rock-bottom

       or merely precursory

       to a greater affliction?