love is like me sitting on the roof,
sometimes on top sitting stedy,
sometimes it rains and i start to slide off,
the shingles are my friends that help me hold my grip,
theres two ways i can be....
sliding off only to hit the ground,
or on top with everything good,
but when is any one ever really on top?
then i look in the window and see the one im suppost to be with,
but cant get to,
but by any chance will he see me open it,
or will he leave me sitting up on the roof? ?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem