It's called the last letter. A poets final days. No one saw the hidden inner pain of daily suffering. Silent screams, bloody arms, razor blades. Death is coming. Time is running. Life is crying. Knocking at the door the poet opens the door death stands. Death comes in. Memories flashing 3D images the poet drops to the ground. Extending its arm grasping for the help that will never come. Cause to people this poet doesnt need help. Poet last writes 'Those stupid people never saw that I needed help.' Time counts tick tock a poet dies. Wishing my wrist were bleeding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem