Rampaging through a diary;
Smashing the bottle so that
The message is distorted.
A means to an end, words spat

Onto the paper, like a foul taste,
Poorly digested. Bile forms
A palimpsest, retraced over its own anger
And wet from the thunderstorms

Of tears, and the pages tear
Too, but the quality is juvenile:
Emotions count for naught
In the pursuit of beauty. Vile

Thoughts choke rationality, denied
By the pulchritude of sonnets,
Pure love in the form of daisy chains:
Chains on wrists. A vapid vignette.

The End

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