where-pain-thrives

I wore you on me at all timesLike I now carry my pen.Unlike your own opinion myBelongings must have a function.You bled through the ink of my lines andTo be my subject nursed your thirst.Was it my fault, or your own, that you forgot__ do not deal in tender verse.

Women in love are patheticand I cannot be bothered, for now,I am back to metaphysicsand my armpits gather hair.

Do not judge a woman on her knees: you never know how tall she is when she stands.

I ain__ scared to lend a handI ain__ scared to clench it either

Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!

It__ just another stop on the curvy roadthe final encounterfor the man who has liveddeath is the answer.

Lonely you linger in a league above poetry.

Had I only known my lettersWould be of such importanceI__ empty myself on paperEvery single morning__nd it was for such reason,as she read his little stanza,that she decided to stamponefinalletter:__very single morningI__ empty myself on paperYou were my greater importanceThat__ why I wrote you letters.

The match I struck shall not run deadYou__e my first inhale, my last cigarette.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.

No man has the courage to approach her or initiate questions she herself rise, for all men fear a fascist and she can very well be a fascist__ wife.

I have not encouraged talk about man__ holy privacy, although I do respect and defend man__ right to have it.