It's lonely up here,
In my dusty little attic.
But I won't shed a tear,
I will not feel pathetic.
In my dusty little attic,
I take my time to think.
Nothing ever seems frantic,
And slowly I will sink.
I plummet down into my thoughts,
Reflecting on my miserable past.
The time this house was bought,
When it was caked with dust.
And then Momma went berserk,
She married a guy called Ben.
He was a big fat jerk,
He didn't know what was a pen!
Oh what has happened to Poppa,
His jokes and funny faces?
All that's left is his daughter,
But i couldn't find any trace.
Now i would resurface,
Avoiding suffocation, gasping for air,
To touch my cold pale face,
Enduring the burden I had to bear.
But up here in my attic,
I shoved out all these thoughts.
I tried doing arithmetic,
It was the refuge which I sought.
Sooner or later I had to face it,
But not today, just not today.
On the cold floor I would sit,
Just not today, just not today.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really like this poem. I should also try to add in some vocabs to make mine interesting too. I enjoy. I enjoy. Hoping for another one. Reading on and on and on. Learning more and more and more...