there are still
other vacant days
some of my holidays
are never holidays to speak
frankly
brought some records in the house
read each page
fathomed every truth and untruth
based on each word
there is this feeling that
i am punished by my own ambition
gone were the days of my pleasures
here in the now
of my own choosing, i have a mind
that bleeds blood
which i now turn into ink
blotting every empty spot in my
skin and brain and alas this heart
this heart
is as empty as a market after
Christmas day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem