Love poems make
me sick. I wish that
I could spend all day
writing about death
and money and street
occupations and political
thingies because I think
I’m going to sick myself
if I write another crap poem
about how absurdly
I love him.
ask
She tied her bow like a poem but carried the weight of uncertainty of its coming undone.
Claire and Caroline.
French/English and American.
Poetry and Prose.
Inspiration and Admiration.
Film and Photography.
Photos, ours. Words, borrowed in thanks.
For prints or collaboration email us at theconcubines2@gmail.com
Pour des impressions ou pour plus d'informations contactez nous sur notre e-mail: www.theconcubines2@gmail.com
Love poems make
me sick. I wish that
I could spend all day
writing about death
and money and street
occupations and political
thingies because I think
I’m going to sick myself
if I write another crap poem
about how absurdly
I love him.
