What if I don't come
up with anything,
or the words start
to die as I think them?
I mean what if it's all
a lie and I’m not the person
doing it,
Don't tell me there anything
more important now, than
communication…
no matter what anybody says,
even if they laugh out loudly
at the thought of it,
pardon me – but not with that?
yes - is it ok for me to say,
well, it all stinks!
I tore the gleaming shining
coating off of everything,
is this the veneer…
but it sure is queer to see
it like I do, or to feel a kind
of indifference when it comes
to the kind of place I really like
to go in my thoughts,
requires one hell of an imagination,
and here's the trampling sound
that grows with it,
the unflinching ever winding path,
with the history and mystery,
all wrong,
if it weren't,
there wouldn't be anything,
and I would die, because pockets
are the only places i can survive
in,
a person with the glorious too much
spurt, idea, and discernment,
better than nothing I suppose…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem