inspiration is a hard thing to find,
thoughts are not something created,
throughout life streets will wind,
my creative conscious, somewhat sedated
struggling on is the way i know,
drifting from one day to the next,
i feel it, my mind will blow,
on my shoulders, its no longer fixed
without my ability to foresee,
i would be in trouble so often,
trouble of a mental capacity,
will it end, ever, when?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.