Life is at a standstill, deficient, unable to handle daily routines with any energy whatsoever.
Racking emotions with heart-rending dissatisfaction, causing spiritual draining of my being.
Unaccosted, afraid, yet looking for solitary openings to become myself without horrendous pain.
Sanctioning undeveloped patterns, watching them wander aimlessly until I pick them up, placing their forms within imagination's storehouse to be used on some other plain of literature.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem