it is not tiresome
it is something that you do
because you need to
it is a cure to
a certain literary disease
there are no rules now
just pure
emotions running over
a brittleness of the
the mind
set on what should have been
greater
than thoughts built like a great wall
stretching
to something like an
eternity of
half-deaths
a string of bean-like
probings
somber, and sometimes
even sober
yet drunk in some sense
of a context
i do not really know if you
are there
reading
it is not necessary to be read
it is the release
of what is stuck here like a bone
of a fish
inside my throat
something that i hold for the night
and having
myself more than satisfied i let it go
like it is
some kind of garbage an excess
an appendix
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem