In My Head, This Endless Rambling

In my head, this endless rambling: A broken fire striker. Can't remember what was there before it. There's just the fact it works all crooked. As a kid it was mostly for mommy. Later, looking inside, I thought — what is it? For ages it does things just to tick a box, And not what nature dictates. The trace left behind after an action Like the dents from a tire tread, Through the years, sensing disaster coming, Step by step along the vector's outline. Thoughts into letters, into words, but not into sounds. Like an abortion of male behavior Someone performed, taking scissors in hand, The silence turned into a sour taste in the mouth. The head creates this chaos, Leaning on childhood patterns. So on the outside Mickey Mouse grows, And inside, craters flare up.