There is just no need
To too jealously guard The Rose
For She has Her own thorns
And mourns alike all fallen heroes
The Author is dead
But The Novel lives on
In truth, to The Reader
Does The Novel belong
Mourn not The Author
For Her work here is done
Still, Her task in The Cosmos
Has barely begun
She *is* Her Creation
She is The Song she has sung
Like a Sad Lullaby
Twix Mother and Son
Robbed even of my Moon
By the light of her own candle
A cherished one saw my softness
My reputation ruined!
Though having finally seen it
With her own eyes
She finally comes to believe
That a man could truly be so wealthy
I don't spend too much time here or I would never leave and Id never get up and do anything, but what a blissful haven to escape to when stuff outside winds me up. So grateful to everyone for the lovely space you all create. X
Maybe I'm not a Bottom
But an upside down Top
A Pot
I love you all a lot
Turn me the right way up
And whenever you want
You can sup
There's a really interesting PhD to be written about the Performance, Media and Cultural Metaphysics of Sex Work, but I am categorically not the person to write it.
Just a humble offering 🖤💫