I starve at ideas that I cannot creatively write
Words and lines that depict more than a precious little time
How lame sometimes to scribble thoughts from nowhere
And seeing them on paper begets a dreadful distress
Loathing and loathing more unproductive existence
This slothfulness is an enemy of lucrative motivations
I see no penny on habitual outlets
Of sleeping on bed and forgetting work
Regardless of the many things that human nature fears
I won’t own a permanent refuge of insolence to myself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem