I wrote poetry about life,
used all the words in the world to fathom its differences and aspects.
I wrote poetry about death and its beauty,
how shady and comfortingand sorrowful it is.
I wrote poetry about love,
how careless, naïve, brave, kind, sacrificial, and frighteningly strong it is.
I wrote poetry of myself,
how I feel, how I think...
I wrote poetry about boys, men, and ladies I envy of.
I wrote poetry about not being able to write poetry and
I wrote poetry about writing altogether again.
I wrote poetry about a person who was my reason for writing so,
and my fear of losing him might I lose all.
I wrote poetry about poetry itself.
But I did not write poetry for you yet.
You are my undercoming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem