Women in love are patheticand I cannot be bothered, for now,I am back to metaphysicsand my armpits gather hair.

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.

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

All mothers breed dead children.They shall, perhaps, live later.When no longer dead, they are bornNot—by coincidence, by choice.

I shall have my lasso, I shall lead the course;I recognize it’s time to mount a different horse.

Do not judge a woman on her knees: you never know how tall she is when she stands.