8:00 AM, she comes downstairs, she curls my hair and tells me that she's going nowhere.   The sensation was a bitter one..   8:02, she grabs her shoes she says she's got so much to do. It makes no sense to me,   She's got her eyes set on the finish line.      Oh, I'm done with thinking, drinking, linking her to all these circumstances.   Sit back, relax I wont let her burn me, churn me, turn me into dust because I'm fragile.      My self-esteem has its routine based on a broken mood-ring color scheme.   But i love to hear the soft said silence in between her screams.   She's a mess, just like the rest with her performance over-dressed and over stressful.   A vice surrounds her skull.      You love to talk about the past with your hands tied behind your back.   Your heads been going places lately, don't know why your mind is racing.