I have a passion for the music in
words – not the best, I confess,
but still that love is burning in me
yet I have to earn my bread by
violating words and contorting
them into conveying horrible
information about ills and pests
and political mayhem, and I hate
it so much, why should it be so-
why have we not the ability to
live for our art, to be free?
I know, I’m nobody
you’ve said it again and again
now if I were someone
I would have made a billion
and tripled it – love of
philosophy and poetry will
never lead me to be someone
at all – and without that triple
billion and just the right degree
of low-key humility, I’ll never
make it – thank you kindly
I don’t want to make it
poets are notorious for
dying alone, in poverty
I only want a place where
I can be myself – without
a triple billion, without
the required humility
without reading a cookbook
without photography
and woodworking too
without being perfect -
like thee!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem