These four walls have heard it all.
The inflation of sins and depletion of innocence.
Each night I undress and shout silently of my regret.
Every article made of lead; an angry word embedded in my head for my sleeping eyes to see.
I try not to sleep, but try to rewrite history as I see fit.
Legends improvised by minute
Truth refused; only accepted as myth.
And words are whispered:
The sun has set and the house is drained of it's manic laughter.
And in the sleeping child's bed-time book is the only place to find a happily ever after.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem