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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Personal · #1865881
To those people who sooth their suffering with substances. I know how weak we are.
My tongue trembles,
In need of more,
Of the numbing sensation,
Given by sweet liquor.

The rim circles my lips,
My tongue robs a drop,
I'm drinking to my crypt,
But I don't wanna stop.

For a man is not happy,
Until he is dead.
No butterflies flying,
Inside his head.

Only screeches from ravens,
Are sung in his mind,
Until he finally caves in,
And with death he is bind.
© Copyright 2012 Luz Maria (xmunecamuertax at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1865881-The-Poison-of-Men