Look at me.
Defects and flaws,
I wear them as
my crown.

Gaps and distances,
and what's in between them,

innocent questions and
gruff answers, spoken offhandedly;
tones which speak volumes...

just like that
...love rekindles.

If it worked like a
twenty-four hour clock,
I would have reset
the hands of life
to one.

There was once a poet in Shanghai,
who forgot to dot each of his 'i's
and left the 't's unmarked,
so his 'm's and 'w's barked,
making him poke himself in the eye!

I harbor weeks and weeks
of overgrown ****
overfilling the secret linings
of my heart.

You think that perhaps, a word or stare,
or a ***** phrase hurled down the hem of a skirt,
can keep a woman caged and scared.

Perhaps you think too, that the only place
which suits a woman is near a musty stove,
that she should walk just along your pace.

I woe such men on their high horse,
galloping around with no remorse ...

How terrible it must be,
to hold a pen which forgets to bleed,
where inks turn transparent,
like water running down streams,
where tears form beads of sorrow,
glistening in every wake,
while the muse slumbers on,
peacefully ignorant, of the whirlwind
its absence creates...