This is the Kind Of HSit I Write WHen In ebriated

Creaking glass contends with youth,
breaching; cleaving chime in two.
Days come and break upon the wall,
on which the record accounts for all.
But reaching tear, and weeks in fear,
and creeping stone, with weeks in time,
she knows she's written once before,
and broke from dreaming ill inclined.

But red night spills from her vessel,
and lingers on the midnight crawl,
it taught her to be cautious; willing,
but in the end, to damn it all.

Racket broken, left alone,
cleaves my measure, leaves the tone,
breaks upon unbending stone,
and leads my sense of self away.

Touching ground, faces numb,
tasking me with acts undone,
the lord of war will have her fun,
will lead her shepherds all astray.

We thrash and fight, alone at night
and bludgeon to our fists' delight,
with words and conversation tense,
we leave to burn these bested friends.

Content just to remark at once,
and then to pry, to mark, to lunge,
into a life we covet once,
and then to leave without remorse.

For children beat, and women scorned,
are naught but what my head adores,
and what my heart had had in store,
has surely, awfully, run it's course.

But people part while others dance,
at blinding eyes, and blundered chance,
I'm sure eyes, of ventured seas,
content to just be done with me.
But, alas, forgotten lead,
and to bury hurtful seed,
hard drinking, husklike creed,
forbids to lust, and godless speed,
concedes to brilliance, tempered source.

And so I breed the needs of one,
and leave the rest to words I say.
Without the heed of firing guns,
and creatures that my need enslaved.

And artless: the witch, she speaks;
"Angered am I, tongue in cheek,
blood will tell, blood will leak,
from the floorboards of home I speak,
and when I reach you,
time will know.

Contemptuary, leaning thin,
of the drive and need to win,
of bleeding sun, and blinding sin,
strings they reach,
and grasp unknown.

But scavenged reach and puzzled piece,
leap toward my wounded niece,
with photograph and partial crease,
in her glowing, marked release.

But places marked, and races tracked,
can't forget the faces black,
that bid without their guides contract,
and into sun, retrieve, retract.

Leaving breath, to breathe, regress,
I must say that I've made a mess.
Thought if enough still to confess,
that I have been the wayward nest.

And yet so far, I toss the bird,
challenge withstanding the words,
I leave with purpose; lead this herd,
to the voices I once heard.

Events with polish I do fear,
and notify that noble seer,
and an unknown vial to cure,
of my stagnant self-allure.

With one esteem would I acclaim,
and order to redeem I'd loving shame,
I am not sure; light, dark do I covet,
but in one asshole I would shove it.