I watched, as the man at the end of the bar threw back shot after shot. After only twenty minutes, the full bottle he'd been drinking from was almost empty.
His eyes, emerald green, were bloodshot. His face was pale. He looked like death reincarnated.
Slowly, I approached him. I stood there. I couldn't seem to find the words I'd wanted to ask.
He chuckled. "You'd be drinking, too, if you were the only survivor."
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 2
Poesíajust a bunch of poetry, started january of 2020. we'll see how far it takes us. I basically just post random ass poems I create, not in any promised order. it just happens. this is book two - I stopped book one after one hundred poems. I think I'll...
