The foetal curve
is a question mark
we revert to
not a haven for a life
lying curled on our dark side
Cry the national anthems
Hiding from the outside
the inside of ourselves
escape is not a plan
in this State of drugged control
There are no light switches
in this suck-thumb-bare-room
loose skin is a soap polished shroud
the wall a full stop at the end
Breathe me alive
brand me to struggle
make me scream with honest air
let me out
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem