Our hearts can break like glass.
We are too afraid.
Too afraid of the past.
We can dismember
into sharp glass
if the past is to remember.
and if someday,
some happy day
life grabs you by the collar
and knocks some sense
into your head,
don't think about it
don't fight it.
just remember
that somewhere
in the bottom of a wine glass,
you exist
forever.
-- Eleanor
A case filled with trinkets,
Of times long past,
Twinkling twilight,
Of nights faded away,
If they could speak,
Mayhaps they would,
The watches and broaches,
Sit silently in this place,
Trapped inside a solemn case,
Whispering tales,
Of things gone by.
Black glass
Hugged by plastic.
A rigid, shiny stone,
Holy and smooth as silk.
It calls upon you.
Its dark face glowing with glee,
its still form
trembling in tantrum.
Eyes gawk eagerly while
dexterously trained fingers
Slide their grease-stained trail
across its blossoming surface,
trapped in vanity.
A technological marvel,
one might say,
it’s glistening roads worshipped and
Truly wondrous.
All the images: moving, smiling, addicting.
The knowledge of the universe, packed into
a tiny, plastic cocoon,
festering, growing, evolving,
eager to be eaten.
Endorsing gluttonous laze, and
Unmasking humanity’s
unseemly colors;
it lulls you in with its
digital spindle embrace, the
sharp strings of data
reaching in through the eyes and
touching the optic nerve.
Neurons swell in ecstasy, pupils dilate, the heart screams;
matter of the brain catches fire in
its electrical storm, and
cascades into chemical climax.
Satiating a toxic lust.
Brilliant glass
turns to black,
stuck to your hand like glue.
I'm walking on broken glass,
Each step piercing further into my skin.
I don't feel it anymore,
My corpse has gone numb.
My transparent prescence allows an insight into my thoughts and core of existence,
But no one bothers to look.
Keeping their eyes down at their feet,
They cease to see the blood coming from mine.
Time has seemed to slip from my consiouness,
And has disappeared from what could've been.
The brief trail of footprints I made will be the memory of what once was and what never will be.
Because I broke the glass,
The glass that killed me.
What did the glass say to the ice?
"Kiss my bottom"
And the cube replied:
"Fiery spirit, I admire that in a glass"
Rain breaks the surface of sea
Amid waves.
A flowing blanket of glass
Turned coarse.
There's a dried flower on the table
in a glass jar full of sand.
Everything looks so stable
but it wasn't made with a steady hand.
I speak for the dead,
I speak for the hearts that have stopped beating,
I speak for those who continue to walk the streets with their due dates etched into the pavement.
You can walk among the living and see death in their eyes,
Lungs still exhaling,
Blood still pumping.
Those who walk with broken souls clatter inside empty bodies,
Like sharp glass clanking together in spacious bags,
Cutting up walls covered in personas,
Bleeding.
A never-ending mindless routine,
Stumbling into shapes,
Shapes made by superior shapes,
Never formulating into these people I once knew.
Life is tough, but even
In the darkest of times you can
Find some good.
Everyday you'll find some good left.
In the darkest hour, in
The middle of the night--
Sleepless and thinking--
Each day is a new chance to
Live and
Find the good in the world.