Injected with rejection,
infected by dejection.
Immune to all affection.
I've naught but introspection:
Why must I show inflection,
deny myself protection,
all prospects of election?
Is it all for complexion,
destruction of erection?
In the name of correction,
consciously seek dissection,
synthesis with perfection,
to bridge the imperfection.
My selection of recollections yearns for deep relfection and examination of direction, but there's just too much intersection - too much mental insurrection - for me to give up my heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem