"What's your poison?" The guy next to me asks,offering to buy me a drink. "His name is like gold And he breathes the air into my lungs" I say,a small smile forming on my face. Weeks later I return to the same barstool. "Pick your poison." The bartender shouts over the loud,rhythmic beat of the club. "Poison he is. Bitter and burning me as poison should." A single tear escaping my eye as I look down in pain. Months later I stand staring in the mirror. "What's your poison?" My reflection spits at me,the obvious venom in it's voice. "Sometimes,old poisons make for remedies." I spat back,downing the bottle of Jack Daniels with the last bottle of pills. I pick up my phone,dial his number and wait. He answers I hear his girlfriend ask who it is,as he walks away to talk. "Hello?" He asked,a sliver of joy in his voice. "I picked my poison." I whisper shakily. "You were always my poison. And I picked you." The tears break through like a river through a broken damn. "What?" He asked confused. "What's your poison?" I ask laughing softly as I hang up and lay across the bathroom floor,watching the world fade out.
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Hyacinths & Biscuits
PuisiCarl Sandburg once said "Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits." Enjoy this collection of poems, text messages, diary entries and more. Starting from age 15, and continuing to this day.
