Attempts to befriend myself are failing,
As,
The Quotient of self-exasperation leave me Ailing.
Is this Depersonalization or Metanoia?
Vincibly Prostrating in front of mirror to send myself Apologies.
Experiences with Anhedonia had taken me into a lot of arms;
That were just abodes.
Affection I need is Nowhere to be Found,
Why do I even care about the Looser I Sound.
The Weapons I have are all Futile,
&
The Gates of my eyes are too Fragile.
Do Not Disturb,
My Ardour Contrives to Die Slowly.
Id est EXILE.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem