I drink wine and drink pain and I write you complaint letters. I started thinking. I've even shut your ears at me. I started whispering the walls this night.
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Oh, God, this time, you're not turning the world, but my miserable soul in a world of bitter pain. No, I'm not guilty. And who is guilty?
What do I see or hear? Do I not feel what I feel? Is my orphan most often my crowd?
A woman who loves her wounds more than the men who take her place? Is that psychologist woman who seeks much pain in pleasure in a body she touches?
The lover's woman who made love to death after telling poems on a man's chest? Or the strong woman who grieves a man when he runs away from all the pain?
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Is it a lost redemption that every body makes a salvation and seeks itself in their moans? The little girl who took a bottle of wine and cried her wounds? Or the woman who made the world hell, the earth changing to heaven?
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