broken glasses again, beginning to think
no frame or lenses
can stand up
to what's looking through them.

blazing with harsh and recycled lies
blinking in breaths before the tornado's rise
and what can we say, when we barely
say anything
when given
all chance.

and sometimes its just a sublte revolt
of the senses, sending
the spirit they surround
soaring, question
is towards what.

and I never have enough fists
to fight off every demon, guess
it's a good thing that
I don't believe in ehll.

and not every poem
is anywhere near
good.
take this one for example.

but when you're alone, trying to fix
a broken pair of glasses
something is better than nothing.