Tiresome

Each and every day that I can write is a day of life that I love.

There are trees in me.
As know one.

Retirement:

There was hope.

I chose to keep smoking though in April a voice came to me pleading in the name of my friends to stop.

I smoked because I was baloney.

Out of here, I remember that no one created this pain.

There was estrogen.  There was people.
I know that when one hope makes me turn to the ones who knew me, I ask peace.

A la a feeling (her crazed black whore).

So now I am the trumpet of terror.

Projection on Marsha.

I knew that she was one life.  I was envious of her dream of Love.

This knowledge was messy.

Call me actress.

When I knew my mother's dream that I give people beauty, I was mostly torn as the family that I rested in.  She was here to have life.  I have been her audience.  I have been that which knows money.  I have also given the knowledge of femininity to men.

They got that frame.

When will I stop being cryptic?

I dealt my feeling (justice is me) to others out of fear of embers (the source of human culture: fire).

I fear one:  bunk.

That you know is piss (Why is there rhyme?)

A lot of people have loved me for that oboe -- a twin-reeded instrument.

Fat Goddess was my rut.

Sylvia dreamed for her people the need of being alive.

Tomorrow?