Painfully Yours

Painfully Yours


Now there’s pain


And there is pain


She said


Practice daily


Until you perfect the art


Perfect the art


She said


Then all women


Whoever and wherever


They might be shall want you



  • dusk arising

    To attract game one learns to play the game.

  • Neville

    I think I should thank you, so I shall.. thank you...

  • orchidee

    This could be swoony in one sense. Is this the 'pain' sense you meant? lol

  • Neville

    It can mean anything you so wish orchidee thanks

  • Candlewitch

    your poem is worthy of deeper scrutiny...thanks for posting this. good work.

    *hugs, Cat

    • Neville

      Many thank you's for your very generous comment & the threat of further investigation... All Good Things, Neville

    • Michael Edwards

      Not sure I could manage all women these days so I'll not bother with the pain - nice one N

      • Neville

        I will allow you some poetic licence , if you shall return the favour... thank you for checking in... N

        • Michael Edwards

          Aw thanks - I did have an Artistic Licence once - I'll post an image of it with my poem tomorrow.

        • 1 more comment

        • psychofemale

          interesting read for me

          • Neville

            Many thank you's winging their way towards you psychofemale...

          • Laura🌻


            ‘Practice makes perfect’...
            ...and all may be attainable!

            A fascinating read...
            to say the least!
            Thank you for sharing!


            • Neville

              many thanks for stopping to consider my scribble Laura, tis much appreciated and true.... N

            • sylviasearcher

              I knew I sensed something about one of Keats's poems hidden deep within a thought this spurned in me....

              It's often forgotten and you may think my response a queer one.

              How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
              How came ye muffled in so hush a mask?
              Was it a silent deep-disguisèd plot
              To steal away, and leave without a task
              My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
              The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
              Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
              Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower:
              O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
              Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?

              • Neville

                t'aint queer ...thy response doth pleaseth me

                • sylviasearcher

                  It doth?

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