Ion even know what to call it...

Every which way the wind blows
is where you go,
I mean,
you move so swiftly
you cannot stay still to save
your life
your heart
MY life
MY heart
you Boeing piece of craftsmanship!
why don't you start drawing from the earth
instead of wind like me?
Seven forty seven, a time you're so fond of
soaring high, adrenaline's like jet fuel to you.
You float all accidental-like on a breeze
you feather. The down within my pillow
I hope you to be, but a bird in the air you remain.
I want to cage you,
but
you won't sing with me.
You wallow within the confines of my heart
cantankerous, cankerous, cancerous you become.
I know without your wind, your flight, your migration
you will surely die, and
the feathers of hope upon you no longer serves purpose
to me
to the world.
So, GET! Fly with your
Luftwaffe,
you 100th luftballon.