It was only writing a poem
Or trying to write a poem
That could free me of my despair
And give me a sense
That my being in the world
Could still mean something
Deluded of course
As always deluded
And yet this is what I do
It is what I can do
Lines and more lines
These lines perhaps a poem
This life perhaps with meaning
Now and to the end
A poem and another poem and another poem
All the way perhaps
If I am fortunate
Deluded to the end
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Too personal. We want universal.