It's been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since you took your love away
Since you been gone I can do whatever I want
I can see whomever I choose
I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant
But nothing
I said nothing can take away these blues

'Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

It's been so lonely without you here
Like a bird without a song
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling
Tell me baby where did I go wrong

Nothing compares
Nothing Compares to you

I could put my arms around every boy I see
But they'd only remind me of you
I went to the doctor and guess what he told me
Guess what he told me
He said girl you better try to have fun
No matter what you do
But he's a fool

'Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

All the flowers that you planted, mama
In the back yard
All died when you went away
I know that living with you baby was sometimes hard
But I'm willing to give it another try

Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

Be with me
I crave you
I waNt you
JuSt you and me
Together
We cAn satisfy each other
in ways others will Not understand
We can become one
One body
WrIte To me
Hear me
I crave You

Listening to “The Chieftains” again,
Their Long Black Veil CD: a gift to
Marijuana smokers. N'est-ce pas?
**** Jagger singing the title track,
A sweet, lugubrious ode to black widows.
Could there be such creatures?
Women you would **** for,
Offing your best friend for?
She had better be as good as it gets.
Could such women exist?
Beautiful & toxic;
Duplicitous, cunning,
*******-worthy.

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https://www.cdc.gov/***/risk/oralsex.html has a low *** risk, but it is not zero. Learn ... Involves using the mouth to stimulate the ****** (*******). (www.ads/right/in/the/middle/of/*******/poem.com) $$Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching$$

**** would have licked her **** as
They led him up the scaffold steps,
She was a woman worth dying for, to be sure.

And Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor?
Isn’t it time we forgave her?
So she shaved her head.
So she shredded the Pope’s photo on SNL.
He was, after all, the Polish Pope,
The one that kissed the ground
Whenever he got off an airplane.
How could you not love the guy?
Shot while riding in his Pope Mobile,
He later visited Mehmet Ali Ağca in prison,
Forgiving his would-be assassin face-to-face,
Exonerating the Bulgarian kreplach, for all
Special Victims Unit “especially heinous offenses” &
Proto-Islamic terror.
Surely, he could forgive the little Irish ****?

Can’t we? Leading by example?
I don’t know what you’d call it.
In any language: powerful.
Oh, Sinead, my sweet Sinead,
We miss your sweet sad dulcet tones.
Consider yourself exonerated.
Consider yourself free to be loved again.

And let’s not forget Tom Jones,
Come on ladies: you threw your sopping
Wet ******* to the stage for him.
His “Tennessee Waltz” breaking my heart,
Losing my wife to my best friend.
No wonder I shot the Sheriff.
Surprised I did not also shoot the Deputy.
And “The Chieftains” themselves,
Transporting us to the Coast of Malabar.
We are all Irish sailors
Infatuated, hopelessly enchanted by a
Swarthy Dravidian shiksa.

I think l'll find a bluejay -
a loud vociferous jay -
standing her ground , sure-
and proud ..
Alert , unabashedly pious -
and lyrically meticulous ..
Voracious for truth , golden throated with frank religiosity and unbridled animosity in silencing the powers that be ..
Bound for eternity ...
In her honor I have named her-
Miss O'Connor ...

another sister dead
I can barely hear her message
over the keening of my own heart

Now that I am old and grey,
Would I meet a friend one day?
Would he look like Sinead?
He might not care, as I am old and grey,
I'd care for him, no expectations,
Like the Omnipotence of all creation,
I might love him to the moon, for fun,
A heart that loves is forever young,
Like Our Lord, as a new day has begun,
He shall never grow old,
As we  here grow old,
So, do we raise our expectations,
As our souls await, in anticipation
of healing love, for every nation,
from the Omnipotence of all creation!

When I used to read ****** romance novels or online fiction (we all do it when we're lonely, don't lie) Before I was in a stable relationship myself, I'd noticed that when love is described it usually unfolds the same way.
it's a warm ball of light in your chest. it starts out small, unravels, and becomes so big and filling that it radiates through you. hotter than the sun. or at least, that's what they say.
It always irked me to read, because surely love is indescribable?
you can't spin the roller coaster of love into a straight forward strain of thought, enough to actually explain love fully in all it's capacity and magnificent energy.

No little ***** of light could match the intensity of naked love.

This here, is the problem I am having. you can't write it down. all of those beautiful things written by others before? they don't compare. no song, poem, verse or bible passage can compete with how I feel for you. and at the time these cliched descriptions were enough to sate the hopeless romantic inside me but now, now that I am aware of love I can't abide the misrepresentation it gets.
Nothing compares to you (Ok, maybe Sinead O Connor had the right idea...) and because nothing compares to you, I can't write. I have no songs to sing and nothing to write because I'm happy. I'm more than happy... I'm beside myself.
I can't capture you, my feelings for you, or the magic of our connection in any art form. supposedly it's because it is it's own art form. our love is art, priceless and constantly changing.
It bothers me because I want to tell the world. I want to show them. I want to run up to all the lonely people, who felt like I felt and go "IT EXISTS! YOU WILL FIND IT! HOLD ON! DON'T LOSE HOPE!" because they need to know... they need to understand.
but if love can't be expressed correctly, they will never understand.

So to the lonely people ;

Love is incomprehensible.
It is life saving.
It is frustratingly beautiful and unbelievable. it is every cliche you've ever heard of and much, much more. it is definitely not over rated. don't ever stop looking, don't ever give up hope. it's there and one day, you'll feel it too.

She came up to me,
Flailing her arms on the stairwell:
“It’s the song isn’t it?
What you were trying to tell me:
‘I hope your happy now, I
Could never make you so.’ It’s
The line out of a song isn’t it?”
I stand there mute, one
Foot up the stairwell.
No-one can argue with an Irish
Women when she’s got something
In her wee bonnet.
“It’s a line out of You Made Me Thief
Of Your Heart isn’t it? I heard it on the
Radio today, a song by Sinead O’Connor,”
I was going to interject but something held my tongue
“It’s from a film about a Northern Irish man who feels
The world has done him a great injustice isn’t it?
Don’t bother answerin’ you’ve seen it, 5 TIMES!”
“What is this a dig at me? Cos I’m Northern Irish?”
“No it’s not...” I whisper hoarsely
“So what does it mean? Have I done somethin’ to upset you?”
“Not that you’d know of...”
With that I turn on my heels and walk away
It’s always a nice send off, when they never really get it.
A flustered northern Irish girl left exasperated
Staring at a piece of paper that reads
YOU MADE ME THIEF OF YOUR HEART
With hearts to dot the I.
Sometimes they just don’t get it.

...As we were slow dancing
to Nothing Compares 2 U
by Sinead O' Conner
I noticed the sky getting darker,
and your eyes getting dimmer;

You were falling asleep
in my arms and I had to steady
your limp body like
a peasant with a sack of
bath salts.

You started to drool
on my chest and I lifted
you at an awkward angle
and tried to close your
gaping mouth;

My finger slipped
past your lips
and ended up in your
left nostril but you didn't
stir;

Our bodies were
still stuck in
a hypnotic sway,

when I realized my
entire hand was inside
of your nose.

I laid you down
on the harvest rug
and used my other
hand to free
myself but it was
of no use; that hand,
against my will,
slipped in as well.

I had no other
choice but to climb in
(the song started skipping
at the worst possible time).

I was crawling
for what seemed
like weeks; in what
seemed like the abyss,
in what seemed like
any old tunnel,
in every typical
metropolitan city.

I found a light
and scurried toward
it's radiance like
a rat desperate
for a morsel of
Nutella.

But it wasn't a light
at all.

It was a bland
piece of paper;
it was a blank screen
of a computer,
it was a white
sheet of material;

But there was
a fountain pen
nearby.

So I took my time,
rattled the beehive,
managed to regain
my composure

and I decided
to write
this nonsense
to keep myself
from ever
losing my mind.

Jackie left on a cold, dark night
Telling me he'd be home
Sailed the seas for a hundred years
Left me all alone
Now, I've been dead for twenty years
I've been washing the sand
With my ghostly tears
Searching the shores for my Jackie-oh

And I remember the day that
The young man came
Said your Jackie's gone he's lost in the rain
And I ran to the beach
Laid me down
"You're all wrong", I said as they stared
To the sand, "That man knows that sea
Like the back of his hand, he'll be back
Some time, laughing at you"

I've been waiting all this time
For my man to come
Take his hand in mine
And lead me away to unseen shores
I've been washing the sand
With my salty tears
Searching the shores these long years
And I walked the sea forever more
Till I find my Jackie-oh

Jackie-oh
Jackie-oh
Jackie-oh