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untitled


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.  

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