Times running out for my artistic needs,
take my hopes, my fears and my heart felt desire,
to be born nothing and die with nothing - I want to succeed
before am taken and thrown on the funeral pyre.
Some people are meant to be fighter pilots, actors and bin men,
I had no guidance from nobody when I was young,
drifting from dead end jobs to another within the devils playpen,
wish I could start again, wish I was young.
I'd do it all differently, God knows this for sure,
not a single day would I waste in vain,
for all our governments man made diseases, I'd find a cure,
but in reality, my lifes roles are so mundane.
One day, I'll paint my masterpiece and hang it upon your wall,
and show this unforgiving world everything I've got,
realising wasted time is my downfall,
and it's this time daily, the battles constantly fought.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem