With my head in my hands,
And tears on my face.
With scars on my heart,
And buzzing in my mind.
The world is a blur,
And I'm just a speck of time.
My mind holds demons,
And my thoughts grow them for me.
They control my words,
The ones I say,
Then most that I don't.
So I write them free,
Dripping them onto the page.
That's what they let me do.
They let me pour them out.
They tell me what to say.
A poem written by a monster,
A sonnet sang by a demon.
But you'll only see me.
And I hope that's ok.
I'll hide behind my smile,
And say that i'm alright.
But I'm screaming inside,
I'm dying alone.
Because with my head in my hands,
And tears on my face.
I write the words,
I wish to say.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful poem, with monsters taking over our hearts, our mind, even our thoughts and words, where are we led to? Still poetry oozes out, doesn't it?