I wish I could make music with my hands,
but all that ever comes out is words.
Words spilling out like a dam bursting open.
I can't play, only speak, speak all the words in my head.
I once heard someone say 'If I could tell the world one thing
it would be; that it will all be okay.' more words.
Seemingly special but so worthless.
Will we all be okay?
In the end we all die. Can we really all end up okay?
In the end can we really be who we are?
Can we really all be happy.
I just want to put my finger to this guitar and play my words.
Give feeling in the cold helpless world.
But the only thing I can manage, are these simple words.
Please help me make music.
And spread it to the hardened hearts of people.
The stubborn cold people of this world.
Let me spread my music, my words.
Let me warm their hearts, with my empty words.
And the music of the soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem