When I punish myself to get back at others,
sometimes the logic in this gets muddled.
Who am I kidding? It’s pathos, it’s somber,
I’m an emotional suicide bomber.
I don’t think so much as act
to free the pain within my veins
because it can flow while being trapped –
I wish I could be like that.
But when I see the fences
I know that it is senseless
to compete in a game that’s fixed:
death is as certain as life is.
Should its impending arrival
lead me to grab a Bible
and spend my future singing hymns?
I don’t have a solution;
logic is my constitution
but my emotions wage a revolution
that makes me say what I shouldn’t.
And that’s why I told your mother she couldn’t
help out in the kitchen.
When she didn’t stop, I accused her of bitching.
I was going to bake
an apology cake,
but then I ended up writing.
This poem’s not sweet,
it’s not something you should eat,
but hey, at least it’s biting.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem