What am I doing,
here on tender bough,
of gentle love,
and fervent times,
where even love seems incomplete,
and still I search for little endings,
to tidy problems.

I list them with such care,
one would think I mother strife,
but not one word on my generosity,
and any news is no news,
is good news, to me.

Is it that you are so far away,
or that I’m never near,
it appears I’m somewhat prone,
to misfortune the likes that Henry and Cleo,
never knew,
or did they...entree their young passing,

Oh what it were, to be,
unveil these not yet tired eyes,
and let me bleed small rivers,
not to die by, but to live,
because no news, is good news,
is bad news, I told you,
that I was not ordinary girl,
and you in turn replied..
perhaps I am mundane despite,
the fact that I’m unkind,

Some fall unloved, others besieged,
by the materialism and vanity,
I think the worst sky,
under which to fall,
is that of provinciality,
to be loved and ordinary,
is of no accomplishment,
no news is shit, to me, 
to be the only one standing,
even if I’m alone,
is better a thousand times, than
to die....loved, 
commonplace,
and laughingly alone.