They come for you-
in old fashioned hats,
from where you don't know,
to f uck you hard against every wall
you've built up.
They know how to pick all your locks,
break through your firewall,
blocking all exits.
Out of mirrors in small rooms with
flickering televisions they stare into your
flatness outlined in twisted sheets.
You give them food and wine,
trying to appease them.
You smoke with them, but they never mellow.
They're like gods of a certain kind and
know all your devices.
Imagine what they've cost you in
Priests, lovers, advisers?
They'll come for you and
they never stop coming
until you die, or
they die in you.
But, maybe there's
something else wrong,
besides
them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I could not see whom the they are who come for you. I find it too broad to narrow. But the theme is an interesting one.
Why are you so literal? Do you know know what a metaphor is? Why not? I will now give you tons of constructive criticism, on your poetry.