i wish i could have
loved much
and loved better than
you do
or did, i, really
love that much, you,
have not even shown
what love to me,
is, or
was, it, simply me
so enclosed, and unletting,
wavering, as to,
what should i ought to
be,
a bud, it was unable to bloom
fully to meet the
fingers of the caressing sun,
i have a mirror in my hand,
it shames me,
there is a board, a list of
what to do
and what to be
and all those
what ifs and what nots.
early morning tomorrow
i will not tell you,
i will do it for you.
no, i must do it for myself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem