Walking backwards.
Returning what was given.
I struggle through my mind.
A gifted portrait painted into a curse.
This hour is not my time.
The fire circles the flames.
At around about 400 thousand degrees.
Not one to whisper.
Not one tree to form a breeze.
Looking for one lucky star.
I stare into the universe.
Blood red is the shine off the moon.
The clock on the wall tells me it is midnight.
I wish it was noon.
Automatic suicidal syndrome.
Bleeds in my veins.
I am wounded.
Scarred by my fear.
Scarred by my pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem