Tuesday, 15 May 2012


Before I can reach to her embrace,
She makes complain, I am lazy to hold her,
I feel the dependence, as if I am not a receiver.
She blooms with love, performance, and growth.

She spills something on my shoulders,
All are wet folds of love, in healing touch,
I feel transition to go into her love drops,
I pass all grown up ripples she does good as psalm.

She takes my fingers over her lips to touch,
It gives me water down strong hands’ guard,
My feet gives stands in playing verse, music in heart,
She is my queen, who brings stars beneath slips and poses.

She turns violent in my absence over sleeping and waking
She begins to complain over share and pair to get confirmed,
The world is now on my vehemence to control her,
It is possession that gives quarrels sheltered in bead up coldness.

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