Half Empty

The whiskey flows out of the bottle,

and into my glass cup;

halfway full,

or as I like to look at it,

half empty.


The whiskey slides down my throat

and into my stomach,

finding its way into another half empty vessel.


A half empty,

broken,

lost,

tormented,

insecure,

glass cup.

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,

I remain

half empty.


My other half is missing,

she left me long ago.

But I am still here,

alive and

missing pieces,

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.



-C.H.

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I walked out to the stage Sat down at the grand piano Fiddled with the sheets of music And then turned to the bright lights. The eyes behind the lights were Watching Waiting. I gave them a nod And tur

This mind is not mine Its made up of So many pieces I didn’t choose I have to tear it down And attempt To rebuild With something like My own influence on it This mind is not mine It’s a minefield It’s

The will to power Or The will to love? What is it That drives us in the west? They say It’s power That's the narrative We are fed It’s the lie We believe We are taking everything that makes us human A