Hacking,
cutting,
tearing away,
getting rid of myself,
more and more,
by the day,
they say its wrong,
but if feels so right,
they say i have blinded myself,
but clear is my sight,
running,
dodging,
with words they trick,
I'll keep doing this,
until the floor is slick.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is another poem that I hate to read because it is so barren of life. Poetry is everything that life is. To take the words of mankind to use for this purpose in poetry forms speaks only of a void. Not just in life but in poetry. GW62