Why do I keep sulking
And no reason can be found?
Why do I keep thinking,
Thinking my words are profound?
I'm not even gifted nor
Blessed with prism hands.
Why am I dedicated to
Completing mental lands?
Why am I relying on
Intuition all the time
To make sure I've created one
That kind of makes a rhyme
Yet preferring logic
In the middle of the poem?
Where would be the magic
That creates the two-thirds cone?
Why do I continue if
I know I'm bad with words?
Why do I invite you if
My poem can't reach the birds?
I know that there is nothing
I can do to change my fate.
But why am I still writing
Like I'm doing self-debate?
You're doing it because you need it. And I guess that's all there is. Beautifully written. Are you really 15? ? * *
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We write good poems from the heart while at the same time bringing reasoning to bear on the work. Lovely piece. Thanks for sharing.