The Living Dead

The discontent in my nervous twisting fingers,
eying them with sly remarks inside my head
Getting enough courage to say what I feel on hand
A million stomach ulcers for me and a hard reality check
Papers in-between parted lips filled with nonsense
Angry,angry in the mirror with a girlish grip
ready to punch and break any clear image posed
How long did it take for me to let loose my hold on pain?
Too much waste and now I am stuck in thought wondering why I waited for you,mom.

A symposium of not pushing the boundaries of my guard
You know I will fight, but my lips have to reverberate with truth
Direct and honest escape plans,to survive
And reach all you thought you could not retain
Except your daughters in a dirty jar spindling a life long web of immaturity
Stabbing each-others shells but not enough picking to the core
To the real break down when healing begins
The emotional renaissance to deconstructing the spoiled love
And yet I leave,on a sour but mute note.