If I were not a whore it might hurt me
This abandonment
This distance you have stolen
This wound you have gashed
But fortunately I only have to open my legs
And there is consolation waiting
In the package of another
Empty chest of lies
Tonight as I deck out my face in customary
Mask, it’s just another step you didn’t stop
Me taking; the actress-whore you hate,
Her business faking
One by one they come by for their piece
And ride off sated, never contemplating
How they love her most for what she is
Creature of their making
the whore's lament
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desiderata
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camus
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Desi,
It's Friday Night, I'm drunk as a poor lord, so probably why I'm seeing more to this poem than I originally saw.
"never contemplating
How they love her most for what she is
Creature of their making"
Missed that completely.
Tragic.
It's Friday Night, I'm drunk as a poor lord, so probably why I'm seeing more to this poem than I originally saw.
"never contemplating
How they love her most for what she is
Creature of their making"
Missed that completely.
Tragic.
http://www.closetpoet.co.uk