I was told to feel better
By someone of poignant grace
And I liked it so much.
But here I am,
With a plethora
Of sleeping, fumbling thoughts
That coalesce
With the nothingness
One by one
I am not doing any good.
And I read a straight array
Of lines
And it’s as if the poet
Breathes inside of me
Scathing my veins,
I am near capitulation.
I am tired
Somnolent
Ambivalent
Worn-out in my dog-bones
Slavered
Marred
As a thick wall of blood
I am dried
I am emptied by the drought
Of the heart.
Defaced
Dissected
And used.
There’s nothing
But rue
Anguish
Anger
Lethargy.
There’s nothing left to do
Let the wolves steal
All of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem