"jealosy" poems
she could never imitate a cat or a dog, woman simply scolded man enough that man can relate to the two former state, and state that the third party misguides a share of concern for the two silences in terms of what man says: i think, which to the woman translates as: i scheme.
being with a woman would only
make me weak,
i'm sure there are enough
pheasants to strut the colar purple
colours translated via genetics
into wings from the depths of
the pacific... as i am sure
enough serfs and aristocrats
simply love to **** in order
to then look at aquariums filled
with ants; come my puppets come!
my fingers are eagerly awaiting
strain for the puppetry of being strained;
the king killed his queen in a raging fit
of jealosy... he's my caeserean digit now -
lo! behold the gravity of a chopped off
head of a gladiator like the anaesthetic of
the apple in salival drooling off the tree to the earth
in a quasi-rubber spandex strap: ah, almost, almost,
ah, almost, almost... drop!
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
I never know when it's safe to talk.
I never know when it's safe to show cleavage.
My male friends disappear when claimed by other woman's love.
The streets are not safe.
The nights are not safe.
Internet is not safe.
Talking to a commited friend isn't safe.
When you are a woman it's hard to find a place to exist and be who you are.
There's jealosy, there's lust, there's wickedness, there's confusion.
There's loneliness.
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 2:41 AM UTC