..did you say something?

the same jazz hands that make thin dust clouds when the finger's flutter gets to close, the fingers that clash like the straw of a broom making that rustling sound that scrapes at the pit the very bottom of your stomach,

I reach into my empty gut disgusted attempting to vomit but alas it's just filled with dead air.

I would compare my stress to the sad old song of war paramedic, I was trying to get by do good but I found only harm harsh imagery and misuse. 

I recite these jaded words while playing skillfully the world's tiniest violin, I bought it on the Bowery,

nothing can compare the distress in my face when I see the way I look, worn down, angry, and distant,

the only thing that really scares me about my own image is the fact that I can hear my thoughts, each second as I look into my own eyes, it's like a chorus of young boys gathered with rats, put into a large bag, pulled forcefully to the dock yard, and as the shrills continue and turn into blood curdling, muffled, panicked cries, tugs, and pleas for mercy, it becomes white noise fading to silence as I awake from  an empty daydream that I'm just wandering in, listless.