Cup

white
with a red gloss inside
and the words
'Eudaemonic' boldly blazing
across the middle,
a red declaration of
purpose
bleeding out
from the canvas
of clay
every day
filled up
and emptied
striving to always
be
what the artist
sought for me.
but I wonder
if what I was suppose
to be was this.
why not an island
or a tray of bliss-
ful lemons set
out to greet friends?
why not a tissue
or a sports shoe
or even a tea bag
left out to dry over night?
no
I am white
with red gloss inside
and the words
'Eudaemonic' blazing
across my middle
my declaration
to the world
I will not be moved
to stop and linger in
the loneliness of not full.