blurring visions
that see tired tigers
retreating inside a cave
away from humanity,
cracking bones
shouting for repair,
falling hair
lots of locks on the
pillow that early morning
when there is no feeling
of waking up,
a mouth that is shut
munching words
and swallowing pride,
a heart that no longer
weeps,
hands that reside
inside the pocket,
feet that refuse to
take another mile
of tolerance,
poems growing
like molds on
left-over bread
a cockroach proclaiming
victory over
unwashed coffee mugs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
THIS POEM HITS HOME FOR ME AND AND REMINDS ME A LIL OF MY OWN THOUGHTS ROCK ON RIC