The difference between how it is
and how it might have been
is irrelevant now.
My life is how it's meant to be,
my life is how it is just now,
nothing more,
nothing less.
No name in lights,
no dressing room,
no make-up thickly smeared.
I am just me.
A simple frame.
A structured puzzle.
A poet's tear.
How it is? I'm still not sure.
How it is? I'm still here.
How it is and how it's meant to be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Rush? Lee/Peart? Ptcha!