I yelled at my father just now. It didn't involve words, or thoughts, I didn't say anything in my yell, it was just emotion. I don't know why I did it, but I'm tired of the stupidity.

I found this.

Public Angel

Somewhere, smiling among the broken china with the wisdom of some horrible knowledge in your eyes, blue like the scattered and fractured fleur-de-lis on Grandma's dinner plates. You told me in the flicker of an ancient TV set of those late night terror visions where angels with wings like twisted wire and charcoal and burnt barbie dolls. And then the Boeing 727 of my compassion ditched into the suburb of my heart.