So, it's nothing exciting,
the reason why I'm writing,
but what else do you suppose i do?
A summer's Thursday evening,
instead of staring at the ceiling,
I grabbed my journal thinking 'this should do.'
So I'm lying in my bed
with nothing running through my head,
what to write? I haven't got a clue.
So I'm taking up my time
writing only to rhyme
but a reason for this poem is abstruse
So, though its not exciting,
the reason why I'm writing,
I managed to entertain myself for a few.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem