The whiskey flows out of the bottle,
and into my glass cup;
or as I like to look at it,
The whiskey slides down my throat
and into my stomach,
finding its way into another half empty vessel.
A half empty,
That’s what I’ve become.
That’s why the whiskey goes down in the first place.
There’s space that needs filling.
I fill it with poison.
But no matter how much I pour down my throat,
My other half is missing,
she left me long ago.
But I am still here,
with a soul that’s raging against the mundane life
as a half empty cup.
I heard a story about an old lady who lost her twin recently.
She was a sweet and broken old woman,
attempting to heal herself by writing poetry about the emotions of losing her twin.
Tears filled her eyes as she watched me read a few pieces of her work.
She had lost her other half.
I think about this,
and I wonder,
what right do I have to be half empty?
Then I remember,
I am a human too.