I have no problem with that
dark space
in the corner
cracked paint
and dust crusting
conquering
the unoccupied space
It is there with me
cooking imagined marshmallows
telling the horror stories
of how we got here
in one piece
Traveling across wooden floors
fighting brooms and dust pans
escaping the mop
to find our little secret oasis
secreting the joy of making it out
alive
through our dry skin
Giving up the smoothest sailing
for a story
some how makes sense
to a man
walking away from the edge
of what's expected
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem