Compel me to sit, and I’ll explain,
Speak to me in prose and vain,
Are your assumptions on nose:
My greatest meekness is in my name,
Seeking for me just to wry,
“Have something you wish to share?”
As if I knew you would even cry,
From buzzing off brown, fragrant hair.
Weak as fluff topped on a lourie,
Befall my countenance: remorse,
Long I do wait for satori,
Looking for please without force.
In sweet vibration, in bitter cold,
Pigment stains in fractal bold,
I would not be as I were before,
Crossing out the washroom door.