Oh dear god— I mean, careless geometry student— Why did you have to choose a pencil so weak Use a stencil so bleak to make me in the first place? Did you not know the compass of morality curving, swerving at full speed would break the tiny graphite stick whose layers fall off like so many on a winter night— I know they're both carbon, still, Why do you conflate diamonds with pencil lead? Now, shining with HB dust, Like a tire-skid, here I am With none the charm of 180 degrees but all the heat of it; A few degrees shy of a full circle. The sign of my existence is an ugly number drenched in sin, cut a secant or veer off on an unrelated tangent, And those numbers are still not pretty— watch how they rocket up the graph to the domains no one bothers travelling. Domain-less like This ugly black gash as if a rip in the paper-thin world I was born in Marking the sudden end of my reach The breaking point of your flimsy pencil Which left me teetering on the edge, precariously close to perfection. Ah, what perfection, the complete circle, The true crown of the two dimensions, The smallest boundary with the biggest space to fill No beginning, no end, no boring middles, Just a revolving, hypnotising, blooming locus. Ah, lotus-like, what beauty, the complete circle Cut through, spin, look anywhere Infinitely symmetrical, Housing such quadrilaterals That supplement their lives' opposing angles; Hidden within its confines, nature's sweet pie of perfection, I crave but a slice— Why couldn't you make this boring arc come full circle? But you do, you come full circle: there you go again, with a brand new pencil dooming another like me forever— But... now you've done it! Most wondrous, a circle! Why, cruel god, must you wave my own incompleteness in the fragmented face of my being? But still, let me look. Why does that I see look so empty? Perfect, elegant, complete... but not full. A yawning void stares out from its heart with a gaze so still not even despair can pierce. A bottomless pit of nothing that does not even hunger for something, look It has closed off into an oblivion it didn't know it did not want. Did I not know what I did not want? The smallest boundary with the biggest space that cannot be filled No beginning, middle or end— is this existence? No wonder it's an ouroboros; They say it's beautiful: circle of life, reincarnation, blah blah blah— But to me, a snake swallowing its own tail has always seemed too much like choking yourself with the deadness of your own life. Final like a funeral wreath, So symmetrical, no supplementing or opposing, So mechanical, like a tragedy, Such hollow perfection: it cannot even embrace another without birthing another deathless void between. And me? I am no lumpy gibbous moon for the full circle is a moonless monday night And I'll keep my highs and lows I'll take your broken pencils I'll take every crooked imperfection But I hope I never come full circle.