I remember thinking
I had talent and could write
'Twas during spring and summer
that my mania took flight
Now it doesn't matter what
I can and cannot do
It did not matter then
I only thought that it was true
When God planted the demon seed
deep within my mother
He decided I would have some talent
but that I'd mainly suffer
Now that my collision course is
at its final stop
I am
again
at the bottom
looking for the top
I silently
flail and kick
drowning in cold water
I am meeker
than a lamb
being led to slaughter
As my lungs fill to the brim
and my throat is slit
The 'artistry'
God gave me
Seems to matter
not a bit...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem