You ask me
what's the matter?
I say
nothing.
You say
there's something wrong with her.
I think
ya think? Do you really?
I'm sick of their bullshit.
I didn't come
to listen to this.
My knife,
miles away.
How unfortunate.
I have nothing left
to use to vent.
Everything is too loud.
Too annoying,
in my face.
I feel sick,
and my head is spinning.
Tears unshed,
scars unadded,
smoke untouched.
Oct.-18-09
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem