What if I am merely puns and quips,
the readers digest version of
a human heart?
What if I can’t write, because I don’t know
(they always say to write
what you know)
My cold fingers want to talk
about epistemology… and what knowing means
I mean, I seem to know,
-because I’ve read the definition,
-because I’ve memorized the mannerisms
-because I’m kind of good at acting.
Yet, I fear I’m clueless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good poem. Your stuff has a ot of substance.