Empty Vessels* they warn against
Easily Broken they tell us
No Purpose they chide
Faithless we whisper and hide

I don't want to believe
Faith is meant to deceive
Inside myself I will seek
Lest I find myself weak

I used to wont to look
For love straight out of a book
Now I know better
Than to **** with the weather

Kissing in the rain
To drive myself in sane
With hope for a night
Filled with my delight

I know she thinks me bitter
For my gaping absences
But I find her fitter
For the role in these performances

She thinks I stole her lover
I really tried to not
I put her above all others
She has me worried, fraught

I find myself in guilt
For being happy then
I killed the friendship we had built
And wallow in my sin

My room

                                              is a work of art

on the unvacuumed           canvas

lies heaps

of U.C.S's

(unidentified clusters of                ****)

heaps                                   ­           that are only destroyed

during nights             ...                                 ...                                     .. .    .  .

that are fueled with       anxiety

or

just pu re
                    r
                   
                                      estles snes s  .

These imperfect     shapes

scattered

in comforting patterns

my          compiled life

in pieces   .

But I'm st ill restless.

The artist

is

never truly satisfied with

her

work

the mes s of          my                     life

tossed comfor tably to the ground

until i am provoked by                       ...                              ...               .. .

...

Each Article

I nd i v i dually held

Set    in   place

Stumb

                                               ling upon

Lost object  s       ... .             .

forgotten   fabrics that

held you unquestionably.

a nostaliga

art

revealing things

you were probably already looking for .

He asks me why
I still write
But only in this class

He doesn't undestand
That he's the reason I am
Struck with inspiration

He's so happy
I so not
But his smile makes me close

I must not write now
For I fear
That he soon will know

Strangers around me, laughing, feral,
Give me a chalice tasting of their toxin,
A poison, elixir of misery
A delicate glass inundated with small flurries.

"Is your glass half full
Or half hollow?"

My glass is cracked and sharp,
my lip cut on broken glass.

In my cold hand,
Red trails interlace with golden gleam.

At Last, I have tasted
Blood Champagne.