I remember thinking 
I had talent and could write 
'Twas during spring and summer 
that my mania took flight 
Now it doesn't matter what 
I can and cannot do 
It did not matter then 
I only thought that it was true 
When God planted the demon seed 
deep within my mother 
He decided I would have some talent 
but that I'd mainly suffer 
Now that my collision course is 
at its final stop 
I am 
again 
at the bottom 
looking for the top 
I silently 
flail and kick 
drowning in cold water 
I am meeker 
than a lamb 
being led to slaughter 
As my lungs fill to the brim 
and my throat is slit 
The 'artistry' 
God gave me 
Seems to matter 
not a bit...                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem