Psy Poem by Ray Mesa

Glass, selected what fills
Honest choice, Will you believe me when I'm through?
In fruition, i write often to escape but sometimes i get lost
What is known is written and shrill, comcical if given I'm much to alone
Planted ash, I won't leave until i gather our thoughts
Smoking wild, my throat bleeds from the screams
My eyes pour from the cliches i often write
I often write to escape but sometimes i get lost