i guess that's the way life is when you've got quotas to fill.
stretching each and every ounce of what you've got left.
say hello in smacks.
don't try to please your man he says
with whispers and with winks.
underneath the window sill
a dying plant
(perhaps a rose too long planted in a vase)
cries to you--
it cries to its mother--
for all the tears of blood you've spilled.
a dagger in the heart is but a gear in the machine
and with each twist you turn
a little slower.