As the ink flows out of my pen,
I realize I can never win,
My desires will always grow,
There's so much in this world that I need to know.
And I walk around my house fantasizing about being something real,
Something you can relate to, something you can feel.
Like a bowl of oranges in December,
We are in our prime, a supernova ember,
And I have no idea what happens next,
Are we going to make love, or are we going to have sex?
This draws a more profound thought into question,
Why do we so crave eachother's attention?
Are we in love or just desperate for affection?
A sarcophagus of syringes,
Imprisoned at the hinges,
A small bowl of oranges,
A fire surrounded with witches,
Life has it's glitches,
It's unscratchable itches,
It's intolerable b**ches,
The on and off switches.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem