A flask of whiskey
And of holy water
Inside of my jacket
Next to each other
And sometimes I'm
Mistaken in my drink
I take the wrong flask
When I grab it to swig
And I drink on the latter
But it tastes the same
And the burn is harder
In the sting of the pain
A little choke catching
Into my throat forever
Corroding all the sins
As I'm left doubled over
And I'm just left coughing
And I'm just left to wonder
Just how good I even am
Am I still human in my core?
YOU ARE READING
To My Wayward Sons (Supernatural Poetry)
PoetrySupernatural poems that I write when all the: -massive emotional damage -overwhelming crack -severe obsession -rare inspiration -demon possessing me is too much to handle. 50% feels, 50% crack, 100% trash. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! ××× ...
