Dry

My unsaturated glass glared
undrenchedly from the shelf,
Light reflected dryly from its
Empty twisted curvatures
And inflicted its dullness
Upon the room.

Fuck you glass.

And you, my carefully crafted
Decanter. Enjoy the stale air.
Meditate upon your own transparency.
Your vacuousness insults the room,
And I shall retort by saying;

“You do look much better full.”

Its true.

I know I shouldn’t judge you
On looks, but on character.
On what you are made of.
To be shallow is one thing,
But empty is quite another..

Although in your case, Mr Glass
Your looks reveal your true humbled state,
your momentous worthlessness
And, yes, I can already hear
Your positive fucking spin on it;

“I’m full of potential,
I’m a blank canvas..
I’m free of attachments..
I’ve simplified my life…”

But in reality..

you are
just
an
empty
glass.

Aren’t you?

You don’t hear people wistfully,
Or romantically, wondering
If their significant other
is a glass totally empty
type of person, do you?
Or do you?

Even profoundly pessimistic
People have a half empty glass
As their mascot. Even them.
(A mascot, by the way, which is identical
to their more optimistic opposites).

A container is what you are,
Mr Glass. I would say nothing more,
Nothing less.
But a container containing
Nothing is most definitely less
Than a container.

To be defined by ones intended
purpose and then remain redundant,
That is true failure.
But failure for which I alone
Must take responsibility for.

I have left you unfilled,
High and dry,
And empty.
I have done this to you.

Temporarily.