The mirror on the wall may as well **** me,
What stares back is not at all what I wanted to be.
My head’s not held high,
My wings of hope are stripped, and I’ll no longer fly.

They rolled me in bubble wrap and locked me in this box.
Foxes- yet they call themselves cops.
They stamped the box and labeled me “FRAGILE”.
Ripped me of my dignity and cursed me all this while.

It’s just feeding with the wolves-
The lambs come and they devour them whole.
FRAGILE- their little bones break.
I didn’t see it before, but now I think I’m awake.

So as it goes, they stack the boxes against the wall.
Shut away from reality in a little room at the end of the hall.
The wolves feed with foxes, they prey on the lambs.
And though the fox might not ****, there’s enough blood on his hands.

File away the papers, and they’ll deem it so,
As long as they’re quiet, than no one shall know.
Toss out the keys so the cries go unheard,
After all, there’s no reason to ***** the rest of the herd.

A lamb corrupted grows to a sheep,
Stripped of her wool, she no longer sleeps.

If you speak for her cause,
You already know that all hope is lost.
You’ve seen it before, or taken a blow to the head
Or something much worse and you wish you were dead.