His fingers laced together at the back of his whiskey glass. Cigarette smoke lingered around him, clung to him, almost as if the smoke knew how he felt, wanted to comfort him.
Drugs, bullets, crooked cops....
The bartender came over to him, and refilled his glass. With confusion in his voice, he asked, "Do you have a lot of demons?"
He met the bartender's eyes. "We all have demons. I just choose to feed mine."
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 1
PoetryRandom Poetry! This is just a cute selection of them. 😊 They're not necessarily in any particular order, they're just in the order of randomness! So *warning*: the emotions WILL fluctuate a lot!! And also *warning* possible profanity. STARTED: Marc...
