More brutal men, stronger than I,
Look on me with mocking eyes,
Eyes that challenge me to stand,
And prove to them that I’m a man.
I loathe the weeds that grow in me,
The knowledge of my frailty,
That wrap themselves around my lungs,
Crawl up my throat and hold my tongue.
And as I turn, the poisonous words
Die in my mouth and go unheard,
And as they wither in their waste,
They leave behind a bitter taste.
This silence left by things unsaid,
Has followed me into my bed,
Speaks to me in a quiet hiss,
And taunts me for my cowardice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful rhyming hiss and cowardice. I would think you replay the situation in your head and think what you would've said, yes? Happens often enough to me.