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
-
Author:
Neville (
Offline) - Published: January 20th, 2019 04:03
- Comment from author about the poem: there is a point where the two p's become blurred, is there not ... written as much for the worded symmetry it offers than for anything else
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 31
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments8
To attract game one learns to play the game.
I think I should thank you, so I shall.. thank you...
This could be swoony in one sense. Is this the 'pain' sense you meant? lol
It can mean anything you so wish orchidee thanks
Not sure I could manage all women these days so I'll not bother with the pain - nice one N
I will allow you some poetic licence , if you shall return the favour... thank you for checking in... N
Aw thanks - I did have an Artistic Licence once - I'll post an image of it with my poem tomorrow.
roll on tomorrow...
interesting read for me
Many thank you's winging their way towards you psychofemale...
Neville,
‘Practice makes perfect’...
...and all may be attainable!
A fascinating read...
to say the least!
Thank you for sharing!
~Laura~
many thanks for stopping to consider my scribble Laura, tis much appreciated and true.... N
Intriguing.
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?
t'aint queer ...thy response doth pleaseth me
It doth?
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