perfection is a perception
of the expectations
we hold...
i don't fit the mold..
uncommonly inconspicuous
i randomly appeared
at your feet...
didn't have to re-meet...
an anti-social's suicide
when we died
and she was born
and i still mourn...
ungracious is your gratitude
for my solitude
in this matter...
no ruthless chatter...
i contemplate your concern
questioning your character
and your desire...
who will be your buyer, dear, when your supplier's no longer here...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem