We are composed of three:
The singer, the brain and the poet.
The singer shows her all,
Sings her heart and music to the ball.
The brain knows a lot.
(she) knows every route, story, and plot.
The poet dies inside,
With her secret poems set aside.
Waiting for her time to shine
That will never come in line.
Always stopped,
Always propped.
Wearing her masks,
Just to cover early pasts.
The feeling of uselessness,
The wanting of restlessness.
Forever agreeing to others,
Not standing up and not begging to bother.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very nice poem loved the rhymings in it............come through my poems and leave your comments