It's 7: 42 and I have nothing to do
but sit on my bed and stare at a shoe.
This is what I like to do
when I'm home and no knew.
Bored out of my mind
with nothing left behind
to worry about or bother.
Once I start writing,
words quit hiding
and they flow from my pencil.
No thinking.
It seem so easy for me to write
but to others it's a fright.
Listening to my sisters yell,
sometimes I just want to bail,
get out of the house,
go have some fun.
Scream, yell, shout and run.
I think my poem is about done
because I have nothing to write
I wrote enough for the next night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem