Feeling Pickled About Saurkraut

Someone told me long ago as a child that,              
"You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take,"                
to just "take a chance and start shooting's never a mistake".          
It doesn't matter if you hit the target they say just keep pulling.                
So with a storm brooding between my ears       
I loaded up my gun and been holdin down the trigger shooting away all these years.          
Now these ice caps started melting long ago far away,                
and its watery rising attitude will soon betray.            
If we don't start to partake in its immediate clean-up        
instead of perpetuating our pleasure that drowns us in muck.        
Like what the fuck, why can't we all wake up, enough is enough.        
Reverse the roots that dig under our feet,                
twisting up this society                  
Tangled, we are lost                
while mangled around us is a cost                
to pay in sacrifice to the fields below                
the caves that whistle and swallow.                
And each word you left then, now to forever echo                
just goes to show I had lost my flow.                
Like a bird that swooped too low                
for too long and forgot it had wings                
for better things.                
I am going to ring              
out          
taking            
aimless shots at boats built for sinking                
as promises are to keep and keep thinking                
about the G.O.A.T's growing strongly                
and keep holding onto these vegetables around me                
as they dig a cumbersome depth.                
With every growing inch I hold my breath    
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~           
or I might choke on bitter empty exhales                
waiting for the pickling process to fail               
with a smell of sourness as if somebody farted,                
can I feel completely over something that never truly started?                
Am I above these things that lay beside my daily needs?                
Or below where the cucumber vines grow and make it tough to see?                
Shoots get wrapped around fingers,                
stoned searching for where water lingers                
in an eager survival instinct.                
To grow into the darkness and shrink                
back under light's reach.                
How far do we have to dig down to breach                
the weed growing beneath our feet,                
whose roots are woven deep                
passages into a world that knows what we once knew,                
below what we see or do?                
This window that's scewed                
on a tilty frame, that's insane,                
that does nothing but wonder.                
Circle the subject in view keeping me safe from thunder,                
while I chew on a worldview                
fed to me loosely                
leaving out the gravity in this lack of diversity,                
and reject what you once knew and were taught in university.           
Tuning off and turning inside out the key          
to clearly see          
a desperate need for revolutionary activity          
on this civilized side of our globe.          
_-*-_   I lay in my robe            
on my face against a sidewalk breathing in ants.                
Looking through twisted passages                
wondering if people across this planet can see us too but they can't.      
I chew on that worldview                
fed to me to continue tomorrow.                
As if ants go marching into sorrow    
purposefully,               
exposing tunnels while singing  
hopefully,                 
through the center they glide                
and I droop my way down to search the backside                
of businesses for angsty cat-like scribbles and dribbles    
from peeps who do the creep              
and have minds that never sleep.          
Scoop out the parts you don't need and repeat.                
The parts you never asked for anyway.                
Mind is too sore of this queen to obey,                
digging into my core is a worker looking to stay,                
his eager legs will step him up to betray. My needs,              
but I won't let these drones lead
me to an empty rhythm  
of a B-side song played by a shitty-ass algorithm.    
So I sit in silence, free from violence,  
and sadness seeping, into a bleak environment.  
Where each realization is irrelevant    
due to this experiment I am reminiscent of.  
Hungry and my heart-line is getting thinner,                
to look back and say all you had was a pickle for dinner.                
And a jar of vinegar shot straight into the vein                
to feel the insane pain that those cucumbers do,                
sealed inside small separate containers from the rain,                
neatly packaged for the train and shipped to you.                
The waiting fingers that drip with dill and poo-poo.