my poetry is dying,
my muses are crucifix ed,
blood dripping on the blank pages,
n disarranged splotches,
nothing to say,
a broken heart,
my tongue cut out,
noone graces the pages of,
my pretend suicides,
the dark places my mind wanders,
against his breathing,
or because of it,
somebody noticing,
someone knowing me better than i know myself,
i am able to let it all go,
put the pages in jars n boxes beneath my bed,
and never resurrect again,
still n quiet death,
of all these thoughts,
all these words,
now left unsaid,
bury my heart,
my poetry is dead..............
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem