Watercolour black and dull,
Are the memories of our time.
Each one melting within your skull,
Oozing out like that of slime.
I don’t recall feeling this way,
No matter how hard I try.
Loss of freedom, so I must obey,
But I’m afraid to question why.
It’s always just me there,
Alone, assaulted by my thoughts.
They never give me time to prepare,
So I am scarred, and left in distraught.
It’s as if I don’t know myself,
I do not know what to expect.
I hunt myself, with the greatest of stealth,
Bizarre feelings I inject.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem