Feeling the senses of inner perception, curling
around my mind, giving me plenty to think about as
I write constantly and incessantly through rhythms,
playing on my walkman.
All of them leading into depths of intellect where
they're ironed out, pressed into sentences, given
new ideas to shape and form intellect's solemn
particles into many poems of tomorrow's literature.
Always becoming, in every motion of pen and mind,
flowing in time to music's rhythms.
A never-ending complacency, coming through time
and again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem