suburbs do a pretty good job of taking care of themselves

I am a free woman

oh what a feeling

what a beautiful tingling wing-spreading kiss of life.

A free woman

of almost 29 summers.

Seen as a selfish bitch

the one who will never be happy

the one who will never be loved by anyone

[die alone; in despair;

surrounded by cats,

and all that jazz]

Well- told she was.

Just before I stood for the same1

with my own two feet

two hands

two lobes.

A heart. 

For loving the ones who understand.

For loving the ones of wicked games

Of night-poetries, of star-shaping

Of passion.

How do you mean, climb up that hill?

Don't you see its steep, and there is no stairs?

How do you mean, don't?

How do you mean,

compromise what you are

For the silver cutlery

And the safe little house in suburbs

[with a Latin gardener on the side

and the vanished dreams which eat you 

piece by piece

till only the empty shell remains]

How do you mean, sell them?

How do you mean, "how much"?

A free woman

of almost 29 summers

Does not bargain

her passion

does not bargain

her mission

You won't find my dream on ebay.

And the cats? 

Well, the cats

Come in all shapes and forms.

Don't get me wrong: 

I am scared and terrified of future

But

on the other hand

I always was.

;)