In the recesses of my mind are little known facts.
Some good, some bad, and who cares about the rest?
Things go floating in and out of my subconscious as if I were some kind of ferry boat.
The only toll they charge is the pain of memories I had tried to tuck away inside.
Why can't it stay that way, so I can live in peace I say?
But, when I go to write a story or a poem, I'm glad my subconscious is still around, because it gives me the feelings for my ideas.
Way down deep inside, I feel every memory I keep stored away.
When I write I go down there and dig around to bring my feelings out - so I can print them on the page and sort of air them out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem