As a poet, my writing comes and goes,
Sometimes it’s scrambled, and sometimes it flows,
My inspiration lacks, while I relax,
In this repetitive place I know.
When I spill dark ink among said pages,
Enticing others, not done for wages,
The readers I feed, I’ll beg and I’ll plead,
Yet unnoticed I’ll step off these stages.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem