I sit in my room,
Alone, day and night.
Dying of gloom,
Curled up tight.
Reflecting my woe,
In the poems I write.
Inspired by poets like Poe,
Every single night.
I break my back,
For her every day.
Then write what I lack,
In poems, in every way.
Her is my grandmother,
She hates my rhymes.
She is such a bother,
arguing all of those times.
Some support for,
My poems would be great.
Instead she starts a war,
Because of her hate.
I’m lonely,
A painful fact.
My love is only,
for that special person I attract.
Who am I deceiving,
That will never be.
No love I’m receiving,
There is something wrong with me.
What it is, I don’t know.
Yet the way they ignore,
Makes it show.
When I implore,
They just say no.
So here I’m a stray,
Can’t go forward or back.
Just praying that some day,
I will get what I lack.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
ohh man, ur scaring me how much this reminds me of myself not too long ago, very horrid state you are in, and i sympathize