My soul’s a clot under the skin
But I still force a smile.
My laughter & my sobs are kin.
It sticks out a mile.
There is my being and my hip.
I miscreat myself,
A poor oaf, like to lip
The Rain like the ex-elf.
You may accuse me of a lie,
Oddly enough. You may…
And you may never want to die
With me. You’re like all they.
The ford of my erratic thoughts
Will take me to the other ports.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem