Poetry
used to come easy,
the words would flow from my soul
like ink from a pen
blood from a wound,
staining the paper,
I died too soon.
Poetry
used to be instinct.
There was no effort,
I wrote like I breathed,
but the breath became labored,
I wheezed
into bags of paper,
crumpled
and thrown in the trash.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is great, know just what you mean. Inspiration is often absent without leave. Very well expressed.