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You are a bouquet of prose I dare not utter; a brilliant metaphor I dare not understand; a beautiful phrase I dare not read; for I am worried that letters would escape me; words would scurry away; while meanings would definitely mocking at me mercilessly it'll make me tremble with great shame and self pity; and the most humiliating is however much I try I still couldn't come out not even with one sensible reason for why should a broken piece of withered mudslate full of gibberish, pathetically deprived of depth and eloquence such is me, be allowed to even imagine about you, you magnificent poem ever written.
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