White space spread before me, to-let
It is not as if I have an aversion, no special set
There is just this constant need to check myself
To see if all is well
An insecure feeling, a feeling so impure
A feeling like stint on a white shirt, I’m made demure
I can’t tell, because I have no reason
Just as stint has no reason on clothes, I have no reason to see myself impure.
By Ivy Mensah.