Plaguing endless days while
Disrupting sleepless nights,
Creativity is depleted
And ambitions fade.
Sequaciousness and Monotony
Working in sync with boredom
Draining every exquisite ounce
Of life from my very soul
Willingly quarantining myself,
Confined within these mundane
Four walls, imprisoning myself for
Lack of a more entertaining activity
Growing vampiric and weary of sunlight,
Allowing the surroundings to rot,
To let disarray run rampant
To throw away hygienic routine
It’s really just one of those times.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem