Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with colour and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate,
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
and I am so fucking sick of it.
I get dropped by everyone including my family when no one needs me for anything
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.