A past.
A mystery unsound.
Unsolved. Unheard of.
You will not write it,
speak it, or hear it.
You will have
none of the conversations with meaning.
You won’t talk to me
tell me of your past.
Convey with meaning in words easily understood.
You have not written in weeks
and I am starting to doubt your words.
They are just words
with no meaning behind them now.
I am done with this waltz tip toeing on my feet.
You cannot lead this sort of thing we have going
because leading is all you do.
All I want is a decent meaningful discussion
and never have I ever gotten to know you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem