I Statement
When you suffer, you become this crooked thing
my itchy fingers want to straighten, to fix
the apple Eve took a bite of-no longer whole
but a culprit of the fallen world, shattering
my ideal that everything needs to be perfect.
You lose solidity, turn into mud my hands
cannot contain, or a wildflower in the rain
longing for a home, anything but this selfish
demand for perfection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem