I look at you and wonder what you’re thinking in your head,
As once again I lay blame, disgruntled murmurings, a dislike of what you said.
Out across your tightened shoulders,
Already heavy with the weight,
Of all other things you didn’t do or say of late.
Exactly the way I asked of you,
Exactly as I like,
I wonder if the word is “hate” that glints across your eyes.
The tenseness in your frame suggest suppression is in place,
Trying to stay the distance in this long and drawn out race.
“If only she would say as many times I got it right,
Then maybe my volcano would not bubble close to sight”.
Will it pass our wont it, he really cannot tell,
Sometimes it is too late to say, the hand is ready dealt.
He holds himself with firmness, arms down flat against his side,
Eyes in the direction and he tries and tries and tries,
To hear what mum is saying,
To get it right this time,
So her endless going on and on will finally subside.
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