Sometimes words drip from me
As though I vomit lyrically
And sometimes there are no words at all
My passion dies;
The lack of letters is agony.
Sometimes I cannot sleep
because each silent thought ignites a poem
And sometimes I cannot bring the pen to paper
because there is no fuel.
Sometimes I think I am a book
An unwritten jungle of words and letters
Streaming into ribbons of
misinterpreted little pities.
Sometimes I am clogged and no creativity controls my hands
Those are the times I dread;
When I cannot string together two letters
Let alone a sentance.
3-05
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem