Rust Reformer is on Aisle 9
My chest lies open most days, My heart rusts when it rains, Eyes permanently set to 'Record', Nose, running, like it's a marathon, My mouth is a hand grenade, Mom lost the pin praying for me to to be able to talk, 'Front toward enemy' should be on my forehead in black ink, Now I can't quit fragmenting myself, Like a high explosive martyr, I want to sleep more, Work less, Write more, There are too many days where I want to drop everything I have, In the name of everything I wish to be, And I can't decide on whether or not to push the button, If I do will I blast off or explode on the launchpad?