You're my sweet (yet beseech and in turmoil)
child creature carrying with insolent foretells.
The way you hold between your fore finger
and thumb, the malicious anger, you
often snap that explodes a deafening sound.
I can lie in a tomb and feel more lively
than be by the side of your side who lively stands.
I would rather be a weed in a field blooming
alone, than be a dandelion in a crowd of dandelions
if you were one in the crowd as well too.
I'd rather receive no kiss by your love,
not a hug by your touch,
no- not a even a word or muttering whisper
said by your breath.
But- still you're my sweet, like thick river
flows of honey down a hive, to allow such feeling
of rubbish overbearing pain that a human can ever feel-
You make me feel like woman.