no comfort

haste made waste,
for future thought,
she looked at me,
again i’m flawed;
not again it’s said,
i can’t be this,
this everything,
i grasp onto;
my mortal thoughts,
of what makes me, me,
and who i see,
of all she wills,
she wants to make,
of me again;
away from self;
along such lines,
what comes into,
that pain inside,
to recede within,
its seems the same,
i can’t change me,
that pain,
is hers,
because of me.