We hide our true nature behind our deeds and possesions
even unto our deaths.
Nature contained may as well be as worms in a wormery,
Visible sometimes, but buried in mud.
I shake my pen to make the ink flow,
I shake my head to make the bad dreams go.
Maybe i should shake myself.
I fill pages with pointlessness in order to awaken the things
i know lurk in the bowels of my imaginings.
I feel a groaning as claws scratch beneath,
as eyes look through mine and try to eat
your world with my mouth.
I hear through somebody elses ears, and sense odd things
that cannot be contained in words.
Though try as i might i cannot stop the flow of ink
that mirrors my bleeding soul.
Homesick, lost and stranded like a sailor on foreign shore.
I ache for the freedom lost.
I must taste the sea once more
Time passes so swift, it cannot be grasped by mortal hand.
No matter how big or rough the fingers.
Just handle it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem