Dandelions

Here is a poem I wrote last night. It sort of came along by itself. There are imbalances there due to the fact that the poem is a translation from my own language into English so you may excuse.

My hands small
My thoughts in a mess
My pen slow
The house is dark
With a small corner
That my wife
Has donated to me
To spend my night
On a bed that I so much hate
I have my own friends in all colors
Nicely packed
Every morning with the help of a glass of white milk
I sallow my friends
The man at the chemist
Is the only person who knows
How unhappy I am
In my wife's eyes I am
An ugly monster
My wife believes
That I should eat up
The throw ups of my past
And that is not just enough
And for the theft of a bread loaf
I must die to the end of time
My love is a few dandelions
That I keep in my hands
In the hope of a breeze
It will soon blow
And I will let go