Estrogen

Monday

The writing that is dreamy is also polite. I strive for pleasing one lover: a good happy and safe part of me. I can like wow.

My acquaintance/friend Mike from the early 90s who was a lawyer who did filing to make a living while he drew cartoons as his art was probably on to something. All I'm missing is the job and the drawing talent.

My friend in Wyoming is suffering from a pinched nerve. I demanded that she tell me that she hoped I would feel good today. That was the only honest thing I could say. She said she did hope so. After that I reciprocated.


Another thing that I wished for was to have happiness and be dry. Can a dry person be happy? I can hardly wait for your response.


Tilting right and left is beginning to make me feel soft. I do not accept that that is wrong (being soft).

I poetically grind slavery as poem.

Tilting away at the harsh soil, I draw behind me the wooden plow.
The sun plays games destroying my mind, my sweat, my muscles.

The wheat and the corn are drying without leaving much for anyone to eat.
My Feet are bare and cut; I bleed sweat but I can not cry.

My wife patiently hoists her bag of cold earth to fertilize the remains of
Her beloved cow. She is holding our fates at bay through her strength.

I have paid very much dreaminess. It was high and soured with cold hell. The earth grabs me from below and seizes my heart with pain.

The pain I am sinks into the ground with the heaviness that it is up to my last moment to relieve.

Life will return with homely eyes and grateful hands.

A failure.

By: Brigid Sans Neant