I have a lot troubles, but I don’t want to talk about them,
They get tangled in my head, I try not to think about it,
They whisper in my ear that I am not perfect,
I think they will go away on their own, I close my eyes,
I tell to myself that it’s not so bad, it’s my nature,
But sometimes these pretty roses burst into bushels of thorns.
I don’t dare to weed them out, from fear of finding something worse,
So I cultivate the lesser evil behind a large wall.