𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘺 (𝘯); 𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺;
𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘴: 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘵, 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳,
𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦

I know who I am
Yet I don't mind being contained inside a stereotype
I'd even laugh with them or crack a harder joke,
if that means with you, I'll get to spend more time.
I know that in surprise of my truth, they will all choke.

I know myself
I've sworn with blood I won't throw my heart so far
like a boomerang that carelessly takes flight,
but I don't mind the comfort of being inside your car
even more so being found with you there late at night.

I know what I want
I chase my dreams daily, men only every two years
And I don't mind the name-calling and naysays
Because what I want can't be bought with tears
and all they'll ever know about me is my name anyway.

I know what I'll get
But if it's you, I'll take what I can and hope I won't need
Even if it feels like looking into those eyes of yours is a crime
Because life before you have been stereotypical indeed
So I don't mind, no I don'tㅡin hundreds of jails I'd merrily do time.

I know what you'll get
And if it's not me, there are always the girls
waiting for you back home
or the ones who anticipates you
wherever you may cross, dock or land
Because I have a feeling life after you
would feel like I've always been alone
But would you mind? If I ask you
to hold me longer and take my hand?

Do we know where we'll get?
If it's not with you and me,
there are thousand other pretty faces and luscious lips...
But can they ever fill the void I've left
and will I never stop thinking about what they lack?
Because I have a feeling there's more to this,
I've never missed anyone's hand on my hips...
But would you mind? If I ask you
to give me another night, will you ever come back?

they receive, interpet, discard, rehydrate, delegate, redistribute,
brook no, smile stupidly at stupidity, opinionate but never lecture,
never hector, rarely curse unless it is essential, tell good jokes, abhor verbosity, act on instinct, admit error when instinct stinks, sharpen
their teeth, their tongue, and their verbal reciprocity skills

in case,

life becomes interminable intermittently intolerable when other creatures impose, flagellate, pontificate, render the impossible as quite likely, reveal things I wish I never heard, detail the details of the inexplicably intricate uninteresting with prodigious force, and an unlimited absence of periods, commas, or breaths taken,

and escape
impossible for some meetings require good manners, first dates the remote but not trivial possibility that a false start has or can occur,
(see The Pleated Skirt poem) and the incidence of really good books in very poorly designed book covers…ditto the men variety of same!

Every once in a while, it becomes clear to me
that I've been walking a mile with a horse by my side.  
A symbolic journey, with my pockets filled with Trojans.
Perhaps prepared to protect myself and take risks in
my love life.

At times, I might have felt confident and ready for excitement
a couple of nights before, attempting to shake things up
and still maintain the stability of my love affairs.
A delicate balance, like walking a tightrope between
passion and commitment.

There is a cause for concern underlying my seemingly
carefree facade; pretending to own my emotions and
express them through words, yet I owe so much to truly
convey how I feel.
It leaves me quietly standing with a muted passion, akin
to a jacaranda tree with its purple blossoms. I am trying to
defy time itself, hoping that my thoughts won't easily be
blown away like your hair caught in the wind.

It's not in my nature to capture every moment with a camera, constantly immortalizing you in photographs. There's an underlying insecurity within me, wondering if any of those snapshots would truly capture the essence of our connection. Yet, deep down, I yearn for everything to work out in the end. Even if we may appear to have vacancy eyes, who's to say that we'll see it all working out until the very end?

Perhaps, when I say "I love you," it feels easier when I say it
as if I'm expressing my feelings to a dear friend.
When I profess to "always protect you," it is reminiscent of
how I would watch over a little sister, ensuring their safety
and well-being.
When I claim "I can't live without you," I compare you to my
bed, a place where I find comfort and solace. In this comparison, I acknowledge that if I were to lose you, there would always be another place for me to rest my heart.

Despite my attempts at navigating love and relationships,
I find myself entangled in my own mess. It's a mess that I continue to explore, experimenting with different connections and learning more about myself through my interactions with others, particularly women.

when you are a woman
you bleed the burden of being one
literally within every month
and metaphorically every single day
you polish the plates clean
you cook the cake delectable
you plan the garden to grow plants
you figure out your figures
you beg to be believed
you serve to be esteemed
you scream to be heard
to be seen, to be listened,
to speak, to be free
you consume the rage given
passed and inherited
genetically and immanently
you are born
yet you give birth too
being a woman is a revolution

You are in heaven, when she loves you.
You are in hell, when she scorn.
Her eyes have the power to shrivel your soul down to an insignificant little raisin.
Her smile melts bodies into congealed mush.

Without her say so, I’m merely anonymous,
A vagabond, some *****,
Trotting through the fields, outside of her heart,
Hoping to gain entry past the gates.

The scent of her, intoxicating,
Like laughing gas,
A jovial inebriant,
As tranquillizing as her wholesome chortle.

Who or what am I, by comparison,
Without her eyes, her skin,
The taste of her lips,
A sip of blackberry brandy.

Her legs, more perfect, refined than David,
Between them, the Holy Grail of contentment,
Where life begins, where it can end,
At her say so— her command.

******* crafted by the hands of God,
I marvel at the sight of such beauty,
In such a grotesque world,
That she owns with her movement as graceful as the wind.

She makes me quiver, like salt on a slug,
As her silky, slick locks flip over her shoulders,
Those shoulders, help me,
Forget Greek architecture.

How dangerous it can be,
To tread through the seas of her love,
Anticipating rogue waves,
This schooner musn’t capsize.

Dancing with her, as if the last two on Earth,
I sway her body, closely against to mine,
Her passion radiating against my desire,
Bound to create a combustion greater than the Big Bang.

And that Big Bang, where our everything meets,
Her breaths, short but sweet,
Her gaze pierces through my existence,
As I force confidence daring to look into her eyes,
While I aim to satisfy her every desire.

If I should be so bold, so foolish,
To take her for granted,
May my soul burn in Hell,
For all of everlasting.

I’m nothing without that woman,
Women, thank God for ‘em,
For there is no greater rendition of Nirvana,
Accessible to mankind.

Miss Pinch holds the word

Women like a mouse away --


from her, by its tail.