Blank pages I stare at...
trying to predict what will
be printed,
copied,
written,
or drawn next.
Everyday a new page is covered in self expression.
Anger, self hatred, joy, fun, craziness, chaos...
just plain all around me.
These pages have now became
a book of me
how the seedling grew into a sunflower.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The feel and confusion in the poem is touchy.