As I sit
in bed tonight,
I wonder why
I can’t write.
The brainstorming
is just abuse.
I think that I
have lost my muse.
I just can’t write
what’s not in my heart.
I can’t write about rainbows.
I’m just not that smart.
I don’t write about politics
or torrid affairs.
I can’t write about turtles
and teddy bears.
I can’t write about suicide
or cutting my skin.
I guess I do my cutting
with my old ink pen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
seems you could write after all...the message here is clear as day...nice work.