as the blank page
taunts me
the whiteness
of the paper
blinds me
my life floats by
like a vapor trail
I can feel
the moisture
in the room
of me
casually drying up
I pull down the cover
for the first time
baring all
exposed
in front of
the dead city
with dead dreams
and dying chants
of sycophants
and paparazzi
parasites
clinging to the past
and what was the best
of the worst
review
they ever
had
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem