It's a holding presence
unrelenting in its vocal damnation
self built bars of an imagined cage
wardens taunting in every hour
those wicked whispers which play
off notes to the record playing out
a soundtrack to a life, skipping
a scratch upon the surface
a vinyl disappointment kept in motion
the follow up album is always cursed
once you debuted that's it
always fighting the expected
less became the creative content
how maddening it is actually
not even this poem flows well
carries any form of continued narrative
some don't see the bars, the cells
those padded walls within themselves
perhaps if they did see such things as those
a madness I have come to know
would be theirs as well
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem