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.