I was smoking this bipoler trip,
filling its absence with some
frankincense, and dirt, i go
deep, untill i hit bottom, then
i get real brave and strip this
snakeskin off, so this is where
the stink was coming from,
so this is where sadness hangs
out, how sad i think, that this
place i some times call home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem