What’s wrong with you?
When you stare your eyes at me,
I sense that there is a sharp tip
of angst nipping me to
several pieces and I am in no
comfort to stand normally in front of you.
Your moves become suspicious,
my doubts linger until the break of
dawn and I feel like the end of the world.
Someone tells me
how you have conquered everything
in your hands with wrong motives.
I am not delighted.
The death of your goodness is the
birth of heartbreaks of the many.