You have nothing,
so you chew, over and over, your identity.
Your lips are covered in ink
from licking your poetry.
No one has got THAT kind of integrity.
You kiss the mirror;
You love the hype
and your tongue is raw
and you think
the sky is purple and floating tall
because, bottom line here:
you wrote
clouds
to be
like
that.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem