Bits and pieces of being scattered throughout life's livingroom,
never able to be made whole.
Vacuumed daily and spit into vast storage spaces in a mind,
taking up inordinate amounts of time, while subconsciously
bringing forth images marring the view of life.
Taking into consideration all the minutes of a day, when
calculated, no one can say how long the mind has been occupied
or how far it's traveled.
Time limits are non-existent - having no bearing on anything.
Crawling around grey matter, setting off alarms, stirring
feelings, tears begin falling.
Being alive, being human, is a painful experience - why does
everyone continue to do it?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem