• Empty pillbox,

    tell me your stories,
    of empty roads and one-night stands,
    of secret places and dirty hotel rooms,
    of beauty... And of ugliness.

    Tell me
    of trashed dorm rooms,
    and memories too dark to keep,
    yet too vivid to throw away.

    Of times when time was but a concept,
    that could be altered,
    and thrown away,
    like simple trash in the breeze.

    When I would feel so well,
    that I would feel no need for clothes,
    or common sense,
    no, none of the trivial furbishings of everyday life.

    Stories I don't remember.
    I remember only self-destruction,
    a once beautiful mind,
    now a public art display on an apartment's wall.

    Of personal torment,
    and a crashed Mustang,
    leaving only sadness,
    and nothing more.

    Of a young woman,
    taken advantage of,
    and brought into that which is unspeakable,
    iron will breaking into a fragile seed, now missing a supporting root.

    Tell me stories,
    of heartache and sadness,
    dying trees in the winter grasses,
    utter blackness in many shades of... Nothing.

    Tell me stories,
    so that I may remember,
    oh, empty pill box,
    I knew you well once,

    but never again.