Your words, the knife; your mouth the hand that wields it so expertly
as you
whittle
whittle
whittle
me down, taking me and breaking me;
turning me into an idea.
A shape;
A dream;
A stereotype;
A cliche.
But I will stand for this no longer;
so put the knife away and walk on,
because I am no longer your masterpiece.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem