You don't know the 'none' of it.
Guess work does not make it exist.
To say you understand,
When blisters appear on my hands?
You don't know the 'none' of it.
Not with these feelings felt I command.
You don't know the 'none' of it.
You can hear and choose to listen.
But these wounds I bear.
And from them you are distant.
I appreciate the thoughts you share.
And your caring shown I am aware.
But you don't know the 'none' of it.
That's why I insist this chat we chit,
Leave us to land elsewhere defined and planned.
I rather not discuss,
A subject that makes me cuss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem