The sin is my lies forming the unforgettable guilt.
Build through the years in my mind.
Brick upon brick as thoughts grow by my thinking.
Something reflects back when I stare inside the mirror.
I am consumed by infliction.
I hurt to find, the love in pain.
Why am I surrounded by clouds.
At the edge of the mountain I stumble.
Through the thunder.
Light is kind to static, inside my brain.
The strikes filled to the end, by my sorrow as a positive.
Sedative cravings stores my potential in a negative.
The sun is shining but my skies are tainted with black speckled crows.
Why the wonder for a reason.
Why I was not still born.
So I perform my part in the theatre of death.
What is especially special.
I live life.
I feel dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem