Rolling over mountains of feelings hiding inside,
writhing restlessly from the pain of being human.
Stillness grasping interiorly with questions and
curiosity, taking in everything and putting it out
of context onto paper of reason and logic.
Confiding to no one, keeping it all close so as not
to be ripped apart by other people with ill-kempt
desires to harm another person with rhetoric.
Black and near-death, because of erudite enabling
brought on by prospects of evil doing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem