some people never become insane.
I sometimes think that the others,
by themselves ride off on bicycles built for two.
and were never born so they remain that way.
mental illness grabs some by the seat of their pants.
some simply never give up,
and lie with the angels and if you find me there.
behind the brush looking up never down.
the moon was beside me and it is only then i look
down but not to far seen
at the toes that i move all around me.
angels of they' do they indicate and they pour,
the necessary wine my dry throat rub my trunk,
sprinkle me with oils.
Then, I must rise ask the why with a howl,
harangue, fury - curse they and l as the universe
I must send them dispersing new seeds above one's lawn.
feeling some better well off to the side where one hides.
I sit you down to roast and off dyed yellow eggs,
blenders whirr and the air becomes all to suddenly.
also pleasantly pink overfed the whale has become.
some people never become insane.
showing what truly horrible lives they must carry out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem