November Tales Poem by Wangchat konyak

For half of my life, I've wasted time and energy: looking for delicate phrases, searching for adorable lines, scrutinizing for sensible words, polishing words by word, altering letter by letter, and editing line by line; I have written hundreds of thousands: of sentences, statements and stanzas, to interpret perfect feelings and spontaneous emotions, the tenderness and excitement, and the awakening desires, for a comely maiden. But I was never fascinated, amused, captivated, or thrilled to read what I wrote because my writing often have a shortcomings while exhibiting and celebrating her beauty. I wrote I tore; I wrote I warped; I wrote I erase; I wrote I burnt. Until now, I could not inscribe graceful words to confess the love, devotion, admiration and fondness of my soul. The saddest part is that despite the quest to deliver perfect and irresistible, excellent and outstanding expressions and approaches before her, I could never win her heart because I never could find such suitable words and phrases to narrate, "My deepest symphony of love". Thereby, when I was busily engaged in creating my love notes to showcase and impress her, she had already taken a bus. And I have been left alone with a non-classical and crooked chit of rhyme still pending midway.