what a waste of
well intented behaviour
it is to turn the page
and scribble upon
odd numbered faces
instead of maximising
the potential
a virgin holds
by spreading the dough
onto both sides,
front and back,
even left and right
if you can afford to
squeeze the efficiency
of what little space
you're holding
your breath unto
in the end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem