To Men who Make Homes out of Glass Bottles

Do not mistake endless arrays of your reflection for an army,
this is not a fortress you have built for yourself,
it is a battlefield,
and your very own weapons are plunging daggers through your heart.

The low hum of the varying remnants of alcohol
is not the soundtrack of your summer,
the nostalgic Hotel California you never really left,
it is a cry for help,
the bottles are clinging and clanking with all their rage
in hope to create a spectacle,
notice the difference.
The delusion was supposed to be only temporary after all.

For every night you spend cementing your glass house,
there is a boy who falls asleep to his monster’s lullaby,
a girl who spends her days gathering stones,
only to tuck them in at night
for a day her army will be stronger than yours,
and a mother,
who strengthens the walls with more bricks,
so that your shards cannot make it in.

Do you know why glass houses were a bad idea in the first place?
They trap all the light and sound until there is nothing left but you.
You, who will spend your nights singing
today I will fly higher than the moon,
only to crash into your false glass ceiling,
until one day it crashes down on you.
That’s the thing about glass houses you see,
all it takes is a gust of wind to bring your castle tumbling down.

So find yourself a way out before the storm,
build yourself a trapdoor,
or a secret exit,
or maybe just a window
you can use to cry out for help,
because the day the walls decide to break,
you will run out of skin for these shards to rip through.
And isn’t it ironic?
You will lay there amidst the rubble,
bleeding out the very cement you built yourself up with,
watching the house you built piece by piece
slowly turning into the coffin it was always meant to be.


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