Second Helpings Poem by Timothy minchew
Second Helpings
Whenever we're together,
I'm filled with poison and frustration.
According to some,
It would be considered a conversation.
Conversation isn't supposed to make
You feel sick and like your dying.
Down on my knees, clutching my stomach,
On the verge of crying.
You could say I'm a glutton for punishment,
Or just stupid at the most.
Cause day by day I come right back,
And swallow every dose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/8/2024 10:25:45 PM # 1.0.0.1119
