Impatience is the urge to open presents,
the day before Christmas.
It sounds like whining,
because your turn never comes up.
It tastes like ice cream,
not ready to be served.
It smells like Hot Pockets,
before they come out of the oven.
Impatience feels like waiting,
for the next solar eclipse to happen again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem