The Milk of Human Tenderness
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Boxes, leftovers
Piled up simulacrum
Oozing with excess
And incompletion
Despite a few triumphs
And to a degree
Having touched upon
The fleeting glory of recognition
Engulfed in defeat
At birth, it collapse failure
And my only pleasure would be
To look at you looking through me
Oh, dear sister, my only pleasure
Besides, I can't tell him
That what I am looking for
Isn't the joy, happiness
Or satisfaction
The cry, the moan
The powerlessness
The absurdness
The lack of beyond
All the feeling