I'd tried over ten days over, to master how to pick apart a pickle jar.
It's a travesty to see a grown fuddle over glass and cry.

Still, I've had a chance to see my life through brine-stained glasses.
The passage of time is an ******* who steals all your good jokes.

Instead I stay coked up and well-fed.
And I no longer bleed red.
Instead I'm a bleached blanket of white socks and sorries.
It's not how large I am.
And not only how smart.
But my language can be best felt
in all my stories.