'I write with great portray
and the words dance around the sun
and I never called it just 'day';
When I am mad, I write with great force
that my pen runs out of ink and I write with sharpies on the surface of the floors.
But you, I had to bleed, cry, get happy or sleep
Yet no word can mark the paper that ever runs deep.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem