Cup poem
The cup is full
Whether we like it or not
We fill it up with things
Like history, habits and personality traits, relations and obligations, desires
That we believe define us, give our life shape
And then we attach things to them that seem impenetrable, indisputable
Like loves that come to serve as cordial that flavors all else in the cup
Until nothing can be tasted anew
Only through the taste of the self-spiked liquid
Colouring all
We toil over the sloshing cup nonetheless, ignoring its bias
Rearranging particles, trying to get to the essence
But never able to see clearly
Due to drunkenness
