Will it be always that I am to break the convention,
The nature of my age, how we are meant to be?
In the moments of silence I hear only miscomprehension;
Has this game of drink and drain become too much already?
To be verbose must be innate or some sort of wonderful thing
No barriers, no walls, the clear absence of internal thought;
To scream and shout like the flapping of a wing
Fixed on youth, the genuine shit, that cannot be bought.
Flashing cameras in a hallway, excited shouts by the door
Ready for the town, skirts and shirts and ties and hair
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem