this constant stationary of nothingness has caused my lack of inspiration
thoughts buried deep deep in the head causing no motion
deeper than anything but the ocean
because I cannot claim that
something that lies inside my head
something that lays on my bead
can have all that depth
and the logical wealth
that might know what comes after death
and to calculate the air of each breath
only to you, my friend, can I confess
nothing now is at its best
like all the misshapen chests
and the seemingly non-existant breasts
most improvements lay at my feet
my decision to ignore or greet
to chose between harmony and greed
a chance to be humbled by the fleet
this indecisiveness I cannot beat
the whole world should just rightly confess
that nothing now is at its best
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem