I don't have a passport,
yet, I sit at this table,
or that table,
day after day
week after week
weaving tales and some poems
about life so vast
surpassing boundaries,
loves and lusts,
the travels of my mind
my desires
the hotels and airports of
my dreams
and destinations of powder-white
beaches and silky seas
I weave these tales as if I
possess them,
me being the creator,
owning the experiences as
if they were real....
as if they were real
.... and I don't even have a passport
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yeah, but the version in your head can be so much more convenient. Who dreams of jostling amongst busloads of geriatric tourists? Come to think of it, on your next trip, take me! DonnieMac