I’ve heard the whispers
of those who sip their poison slow,
calling it a descent…
as if staring into the abyss
through a wine glass
makes them profound.
I never learned it that way.
Alcohol slunk in first,
legal, cheap, uninvited.
Not because it was good.
It isn’t.
It blurs everything into sludge,
promises warmth,
keeps only regret.
Better alchemy waited in shadows.
Forged, not fermented.
No theatrics.
No slop.
Some rare as myth,
costly as devotion…
and they delivered.
They had purpose.
Gods with domains.
Cannabis…
shapeshifter, Eden feral.
One breath for creation,
one for oblivion.
it whispers where doctors fail.
Amphetamine steals fatigue.
Unless you’ve ridden that vein
you don’t know boundless…
hours without weariness.
Vodka laughs.
Drunk is impossible.
E turns music into a heartbeat,
dance into fire,
sex into sacrament…
every touch revelation,
the universe splitting open.
Coke crowns you
a strutting asshole god…
a blade for arenas
where humility loses.
Heroin,
my velvet dimmer switch,
turns the screaming mind
to a murmur.
Mercy.
Alcohol?
A blunt instrument.
The legal crutch.
A switch flipped
when nothing sharper’s near.
So when they preach
their “alcohol problem”
like proof of the abyss…
I nod.
I understand
their depth.
Alcohol.
That’s adorable.
- UpsilonA