Poetry

like ashes 
dripping from the cherry 
of a forbidden cigarette, 
on a cold morning 
drunker than I intended 
to be. 

The bile 
builds up 
in the back of my throat 
as I hover helplessly 
over the toilet, 
wishing my stomach 
would make a decision. 

I have never been lonelier 
in this bathroom 
pondering the point, 
of all this! 
While I try to recover 
what has been redacted 
from my memory, 
then find the courage 
to look back in the mirror, 
and continue on till 
tommorrow. 

Sixty-Four days 
since the descent 
began, and the bottom 
still seems like an illusion 
although I know it´s there 
waiting in the darkness 
keeping close watch 
over the other half 
of my soul.