I can’t sleep anymore,
not without bullets
that blow my brain to bits- or dreams
of trees, that grow suddenly
from envelopes sent to me, by dear old friends.
I worry you’ll commit me for being mad,
or condemn me for all my beautiful, little suicides.
You wouldn’t believe
how heaven and hell are in my stomach, or
as real as any hangnail-
and how I have tombstones for eyes.
It’s the middle of January,
cold as death, and I don’t care,
it’s the beginning of a new year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A new year that ushers in the eternal pain but also the eternal beauty of your poetry and soul that you will never be able to hide. Uriah