Nothing could manage,
in that there place of fittings,
of what our minds are permitting,
the anticipation killing us.
Nothing was a lie,
even the small lies,
that were bundled to make a bigger lie,
were lies of a nothing.
But of a something, magic story.
That somehow made me a lie,
and I'm wrapped in this so called lie,
where my dependencies lay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is so boring