She wasn't always like this,
a dead soul living between fixes,
her bedroom is like heaven,
angels dust and pixies,
chronic and needles,
icicles and crystals.
She exhales smoke like a factory,
and breathes dust constantly,
like must be wonderful,
burning out like stars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A lot more substance here for the reader to digest. A more than recommendable read. GW62