Is The Glass Half Empty?

so needed while breath aches where both are inadequate. those hats those briers our seas—such to die while feeling goodness as exposed to wrongness; so deprived of emotion or bereft of flesh where minds need more physicality; so simplistic where reaching if but to locate an inner poet the dying so incessantly where souls are shameless the lie as it bled as it withered while such fruit could cause happiness. surreal violins or a grin so calmly where literature dwells in doubletalk; a man shunned a drum beating where he might rejoice to be selected; our casual empire while knees bled or dots were braced for war; such coverage as it never matters while most are too threaded to feel but strategy. such sawdust such cries where some are never noticed, whereas, others are many agendas—so battled for death such memories all heinous such success to have our likeness. but days are repaired a man wants his reflection where finding destiny is a mark in darkness; so many darts or boards while chalk dances like licorice; a duvet as we laugh or risqué to ask if but souls reborn for sessions—the last river or denial a coping-device while it all returns: so smothered one second or so at cries another second while most desire a little babying; indeed, to re-shift those years in training while we thought it was existence: the signature those dotted lines or a platypus shipped into the yard’s lagoon. smoky eyes or skin abrasions to talk smack about damn near everything: such dear pleasures to have adored a human while adapted to a rare soul.