Every day, every morning,
i wake to a beating heart of which it slows,
bleeding from the emptyness it now feels,
suffering from the grip of exhaustion, depression and lonlyness.
I create a bucket to contain the blood, hoping it will stop,
it just continues spilling over,
as i wash the ground which it spilt, it only thickens,
why must it not stop? can it stop?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Vivid imagery. Short yet has impact. Well done.