What’s to want,
in a perfect world?
I can live each day,
as if simple existence be my desire.
I can live so, knowing that
her kiss meant nothing,
and her touch truly was but,
one hand in a misguided night.

Yet I find with a passing glance,
in the mirror I try to avoid,
the look of a lying fool.
One that says,
it is nothing but dreams,
and simple truth which you admire.

What’s to want,
in a perfect world,
when desire is existence,
built upon the admiration of dreams?
Oh such unrelenting rage that is relinquished!
When that of which you desire is not obtained.
Must I drink this poison so that I grow numb?
Better that I chain my mind,
so it grows not to think?

Pound me to dust, so I simply go—
Oh, no breath from those lips,
could cure my ill mind.
But perhaps, so it could be done, for
What’s to want, in a perfect world?
Where simple existence of obtained desired dreams,
expend that doubt from those whom denied
such words of thought, such mounting tension,
in a unrelieved mind.

‘Till it be but a simple stone on a shoreline,
with no purpose but to be,
slapped again and again
by cold, cruel merciless waves--
Let doubt cease its existence
in my mind of unapproachable woes.