My Poison

The dominant strains that run through my veins render it hard to ascertain where alcohol and nicotine sin ceases, desists and I begin. A criminal trend to miscomprehend why I swig yet another one ‘round the bend, glass in hand, oblivion to seek, drowning along the whisky creek. If you jerked the chain linked to my brain and trod on the shakier side of sane, you could be me for one lost weekend and walk in the shadows that nightly descend. This fleeting release, this creeping disease in a quest for eventual quiet and peace; vacation, a respite from living with me, my comfort, my poison, my cup of tea. The chatter of noises and barbarous voices are slain in a hailstorm of cul-de-sac choices; lie dead on a beer-mat, quiet as a lamb, if I drink therefore I am.