There are never enough moments to fill a day
and yet there are days your heart just-simply-breaks.
Sore eyes swelled to a point - they won't obey
and yet still your day is so unfulfilled it aches
it-is-filled with anguish wanting better results
it's as though very few live the lives of adults.
And fewer still put in the hours to experience-
what each day holds - contain with overabundance.
Is it simply we are just too inexperienced?
We don't accept our gifts, this overabundance.
Have we become bored to the point of self-denial?
That it tastes bittersweet like a poisoned vial?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem