This ink with which I write flows from my soul
Smells like coloured pine on manhattan skyline
Crystal blue skies do nothing but shade my anguish
As I listen to folktales from dear old time
I reminisce on wishes stolen by scavenging hawks
If I could redo a thing I'll sell off my emotions for a penny at birth
The price of truth has kept me humble in silence
The realities I've seen a movie with no genre
I write this letter to you who is me in me when am ready to be me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem