A little like this

She slurped her soup
From the cup noodle
As she is talking
About to shed my tears, me
From the story I am delivered
Feeling lucky


My mamma, I always doubt
Her, being right, always
At least that’s what I thought
A good thing happens
And I thank her in whisper
Poor girl, me
She hardly knows life
Think outside the box but
I broke the box
Created a world of my own
Meanwhile I analyse stories
people, and their daring moments
Slipped into a black shirt
With a name on it
Not mine, but the firm
No identity
More or less like smothered
Can’t like a bit of it
Waiting tables
Eating in haste
She hated all of it
Still thanked her mom
She was not stupid
Rather a pure soul
waiting to be triggered
by someone
or something, it may be.

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