there is this
boundary between the room and your door
there is a frame
of a mind
outside
possibilities grow like
any tree
inside the room
you are always lulled to sleep
by your bed of
roses
outside is always stunted
like a bonsai
they always cut your branches
remove your
roots
inside you are
dying
what you can be is
but a dream
if you love
it will be a lie
if you tell the truth
you will die
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem