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The pain is mine, not else's
a extraordinary person,
within a complex, beautiful story
Somethings perceived you when you were little as a mice
Fact only reverberating in you so much later...
To see the young girls of Maria Monte
Why don’t know from who are writing.
But that Xangô says it is an important matter.
Say, Much I would be eased to use poetics
Usage of style like metonimia,
sinedoques, In trotum pro parte
Maybe the losing part was my poetic supposed genius
As in William Blake’s conceptuology
And engravures...
The pain is mine, not else’s
Not else’s mine is that pain
My knees in pain,
I lying on the ground
Painfully.
Pain that I don’t fear you,
Pain you are turning me into a willow
Verging my ability,
Turning tolerance
Into bellicose agility
Not leftwing any remains.
No human needs, not piety
When we follow thy in our cold slumber
Order’s not important
The mausoleum where I slept,
Alive talking with my three kin of decay
In a long soloquie, a one way converse
The most personally rewarding I had ever had.
Bless them by this spring of atheism.
Lament for not getting consensual
Their elderly wisdom lost in words of lust,
Mad as I was mad for pussy and ass
So, the kin, based on unfulfilled desired.
Rath and lament for the lose fucking
Rath and watercolor washing off,
Till my dear father, uncle and dear granny,
See, not to come in or on or twice or thrice was the matter out of my advice.
Next time I will dream and talk with my walking death kin,
I will come and see,
All also let them come and see, jerking with me.
As the sepulcher, in full, was flooded in hot come, ours,
Cross gender, without defender, mender, transgender,
All kin, as it should have been, united and no surrender.
