I am the Rambler Woman.
A poetic ramble.
That last burst of light, before the drop of the sun below the horizon line. That one last kiss, before death. And yet, to meet death as friends, and not adversaries, Is half the battle. Why must I suffer, in order to create greatly over emotional poetry? My puddles have become Oceans of tears.
Everything explodes before it implodes. There must be a release. That’s why after a man cums, he falls asleep. Thus, exploding sperm, imploding sleepiness.
Some wallow in their misery. Some puff out their chest’s. While others, look away. This becomes a simple statement. He’s just not that into you.
He’s just not that into me? Should I accept it and move on? Or succumb to the pressures of wallowing in my own self pity. I could even be spiteful and as mean as him. If I choose. Isn’t love supposed to be a shinning perfect knight?
I just know ….that I must get OVER YOU!
But that doesn’t work for me, now does it? Yeah, I like bad men. Very naughty, intelligent, cunning, hunter, warrior, stealth, men of stature, and Power above all. I hunger, no I drip over a Powerful man.
What makes a man powerful is his faith in his Gods and Spirits. Then it’s the power of his prayer. I know a man with shoulders the size of Mountains. Who makes me quake. His prayer would shake the Earth. And make a pauper into a King, if he desired it to be so.
Why do I waist such good descriptions on a man, who doesn’t love me back?