My mother always told me,
my blood was as poison.
Tainted, impure,
as thick and black as hatred.
I could only take pleasure in the misfortune I'd someday learn.
My childhood was seemingly boring.
I've bled from belief that I'd once more,
indulge in that unforgotten sin.
I could never clean my thoughts to a sane theme,
I am far too weak.
Internally condemed,
and salvation no longer exhists.
Too cruel for forgiveness,
and armed for an implosion.
My conscience withers at your idea of love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem