I’m dragging a pencil marking some lines
Making words good enough to convince myself
That you’re still mine
But it’s becoming ugly
And the eraser is left in shavings
The pencil tip stays deadly sharp as it invents more and more
Million of pieces of paper living below
Turning the brown carpet into crumpled snow
All smashed into a ball
These letters don’t fly
These letters don’t lie
These letters don’t stop your cry
And you’re weeping on your bed
With tissues outweighing my paper
And I honestly lie; I don’t know why
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem