There is not much you can do about it.
A bee is just like a bee.
Will wander around the garden.
Will chase after her own affair.
Flowers

There is an underground story
When i see this juvenile olive in bloom.
Of lines,
Of angles,
Of raindrops,
Abstract that is left unsaid.

Anytime she would see
The branches of aloe vera,
She would be caught by surprise;
Those tall, moist, freckled branches;
She would swear
They belonged to a girl;
No there was no flower standing there
At the window;
There was a girl with moist,
Smooth, freckled thighs;
And wicked they were;
She wanted to sense that smooth curve,
That soft skin;
How she would pass her fingers
Eagerly along the flesh; they made her long;

He did throw the ***** on my back!
And it wouldn’t stop coming out.
It gave me a sense of fascination,
And lewd.
I can not explain objectively why

You existed yesterday
Today you are not
You come and shout in my face
It is easy to understand
I am an angel
In this fleeting world.

I had a dream yesterday.
There was a fire at school.
The people looked at it indifferently
And were swept by the flames
The tables and chairs…
I could see them running away.

The texture of their love,
More and more looked like circles on water to me.
Presuming it was there,
As soon as i touched it,
It disappeared