All mothers breed dead children.

It’s just another stop on the curvy roadthe final encounterfor the man who has liveddeath is the answer.

The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.

I wore you on me at all timesLike I now carry my pen.Unlike your own opinion myBelongings must have a function.You bled through the ink of my lines andTo be my subject nursed your thirst.Was it my fault, or your own, that you forgot—I do not deal in tender verse.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

Beneath her thinnest skin and light, a fuse leads way to dynamite.

I have not encouraged talk about man’s holy privacy, although I do respect and defend man’s right to have it.

Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!

I ain’t scared to lend a handI ain’t scared to clench it either