Why must I use everything in a metaphor?
Cannot I ever just bluntly speak my mind?
I guess this is a ruth upon me.
The irony is my shadow.
Like the cleaning of a house, it never ends.
As I pity others, I seemingly do the judging on myself.
Am I symbolizing everyone as me?
Is the world a mirror of sadness and elegies?
Moreover, why do I feel the need to question myself,
especially when pseudo-intellectuals interrogate me, which I so abhor?
The lissome world of mine is crumbling yet again.
I think my own emotions do need attention for once...
These times are like fleeting memories to me.
The petals of a violet are like me: they are bound to fall.
Such a curious and quiet sensation I am sensing.
'Till I can stop helping others, and help myself, my heart will be drenched in wine.
How deplorable...
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