Stress Poem by Leyla Steyn
Stress
I'm done with this.
He kept saying he hated the place.
Everything was wrong.
I told him to shutup.
Feeling he must be vile,
to feel any inch of pleasantness.
And I thought he was stupid.
And I thought he was sad.
He was looking at the glass,
And smashing it on the floor.
But he enjoyed it.
So how can it be miserable?
It's not like I don't hate this world too.
I just know how to live with it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/30/2024 5:03:30 AM # 1.0.0.1119
