If i tell my story
When no one is willing to hear
Who takes the glory?
And who holds it dear?
For my story is my mind,
Yet to the world i'm a ghost.
A book the librarian forgot to find.
A writer who can't write when she needs to the most.
Writing is a lot like talking
But simply not aloud,
Or walking
Away from the crowd.
My story is mine
I write it day and night,
Line by line
From morning to midnight.
For it is my story
I write it every second, minute, and hour.
A record of my memories
Both sweet and sour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A nice poem. Very elegantly crafted. Thanks for sharing......1010