I'm not the existing, not.
I'm a ghost running like winter winds in fonts,
making clicks from thee center of the shore,
15 knots deep into the corner of your thoughts.
I don't exist, Idon't
I invent lines that makes the papers to bleed silently,
your breath to run in circles simultaneously,
but I'm thee you will never see.
Take a peak, I do tweets that speaks like yano beats,
I'm that one beep in your heart when you meep,
with 4inches of inspiration,
8 tons of lust,
10x the speed that your retina swings when reading thee,
I'm the cold walking front in the pupils of you
I am the son Of Paper
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem