I guess, the mess we find ourselves within
is relative to where we planned to be.
That cold chagrin could camouflage the grin
upon the face we let the others see.
Although, we cannot hide the true intent
when onlookers are more astute than we.
How hard it is to hide then, what we meant
How hard it is, to admit...this is me?
How many foolish arguments arose
to sate one's puerile, paranoid defence?
How many friends have you imagined 'foes'?
How can the ego combat common sense?
I guess the mess we find ourselves within
is Karma's way of redressing that sin?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem