Losers never win,
dim lit existence
showing up at heavens door
banging daily yelling 'let me in',
with hopes wearing thin
like hair riped out at the root
zen position, astral projection
trying to fly the coup.
But I'm grounded
in fact i feel its more like I'm sinking
mind begins thinking
i have a will to start inking,
but I have nothing to leave behind
empty pages on the mind
will still searching for that scribble & blip
on hospital monitors reading only flat lines
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem