Small beads of imperfections hang
upon the necks of the self- deemed perfect,
They claim no flaws, yet they are riddled with lies,
Upon the perfect are the imperfections of being perfect,
They know not the plethra of distortions twisting their tongues,
Yet they indulge on the sweet flavor,
Of their fraudulent gratification for such imperfect perfections.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful Write! ! ! Very nice short poem. Keep up the good work!