all i can break,
is my metaphorical fingers
as they **** and fly and zing and upchuck my thoughts,
barely there somehow i do not know i do not feel i am far away
and pummel and spit on and crush and **** and bite and tear and torture until they are out of my head and i am a silk sheet fluttering on a soft cold bed
by a father who felt compassion once
and maybe still does far away get out of his head, come back to earth listen come back to us
then maybe silk sheets would flutter and there would be colors and light and movement and pictures and more than this cracked broken glass jar theres no ship in this bottle just air and ants and the aftermath of a parched throat