Some people, sometimes, get the blues;
But, me, I always get the greys.
Across the barren sky inside
They wax & then they wane.
Always that same dreary hue
In endless shapes & countless shades.
Only the weatherman above
Knows if they'll leave or stay.
Sometimes they smother up my sky
& lie stagnant there for days.
Some other times they weep their grief
&, with haste, waste away.
Sometimes they tantrum like a child;
They bash & growl in childish rage,
Much like a beast dragged from the wild
& tossed into a cage.
Sometimes they're few & far between
& not enough to ruin my day.
Some other times they're none at all
For more of this, I pray.
Some people, sometimes, get the blues;
But, me, I get the greys.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem