The pack of crisps I once regarded
Lie empty and discarded.
An empty plate inhabited by crust
Pizza consumed with lust.
My sofa cushions perfectly molded
Blankets carelessly unfolded.
Overworked T.V on and blaring
And only one sat staring.
Phone off to stop the nagging
Desire totally flagging.
Work neatly piled against a door
Abandoned, boring chore.
Empty, vacuous and lonely
She was the one: the only.
It’s been decided that I’m surplus
Do I even have a purpose?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem