The smooth, sharp edge of the
machine, gently pierces the flesh,
as sweat gathers and minds
wander.
Meanwhile, children use similar
machines
to make it easier to sketch.
The joys of their lives portray
how useful the machine is.
Slowly twisting a coloured
implement
round and round,
sharper and sharper.
Onto the page it goes, quietly
creating portraits of your life.
From colourful playgrounds, to
blackened despair.
A once childhood tool, turns into
a weapon,
used against oneself to evaluate
love, hatred, anger, depression;
Life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem