Just some quasi poetic, mumble jumble…

By: Umm Qamar

It’s the tremor in my right foot.

It’s the burning sensation behind the whole of my face,

Threatening to burst through my retinas and wreak havoc on my

Mascara.

This is not patience. This is fucking anxiety.

Pen scratching paper, writing lacking style, Fucking anxiety.

And it’s bleeding black ink  through my fingertips,

Like a papercut gone horribly wrong.

I scream silent.

Long, hard, glass shattering, silence.

As if I were the lamb, and Hannibal Lector was my

Case study.

This is sickening,

To wait as if the “something good” was right around the corner.

But in reality, it is not.

And it almost never works out.

They say, “the good die young,”

And the patient,

Well the patient always get rewarded,

 In the end.

I wish I could hold the end in my arms,

Rock it fervently,

Rock it

And kiss it to death.

If finality was my baby,

I’d tell it to never leave,

Don’t grow up too soon,

And if you do leave,

Please take me with you.

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