back to Writing Desk Smudged Glasses by Jon Beherends I see the world with smudged glasses. I see hurt and hate. I see myself, I don't like the reflection. I don't have the lens cleaner... where did I drop it? Did I drop it when I was seven or when I was eight?  Lost forgotten are my days of clear vision. Now the sight is tainted, the specs of death slowly killing. I feel closer to my death every sin, every minute I take the poison. (c) 2001 The Breaking Room