My glass is no longer half full half empty.
My glass is broken.


Yet I hold it with both my hands. Wounded, I bleed to take one last sip of you.
And you slip between my fingers, mixed with my blood, intertwining with the wrinkles time carved on my skin like ancient rivers, drawing flowers and frowns.
I stare.. For the very first time I’m seeing myself. I am a work of art.
And the room thinks I’ve gone mad. But I’m only growing sanity like tangerine trees.

My glass IS broken
But I’m already drunken of the truth
So awake, so aware, so-ber
Sharp, like the shatters of us scattered on the floor
And they are unraveling before my third eye.
They’re not beautiful, but they’re sincere
Serene and tranquil
But not stale and not still.

My glass is broken
and its cracks, the pattern of the universe,
are holy, shimmering, dark, and pure.
These cracks, are my glass’s core.