Monday, 17 August 2015


The woman's body is a call to violence, I told you once, with you laying naked on my bed. Her soul is a call to disdain, I add now. It's a sentiment which surges inside me, the disgust; a blunt anger which I cannot avoid to extend to the all gender. Deceit is woman's nature, you don't want and so can't avoid to do it. It's not possible to know when you are lying, but that you will lye that's for sure. If not today nor yet tomorrow, maybe another day.
It's a pity, for I felt well with you: I knew you're not what I need, but you had been comprehensive on what with all the others, sooner or later, had become a problem. And for that I was grateful. But then you have decided to make fun of me, even though you hadn't necessity of it. You have wanted to anger me and got the best result you could aim for. You made me look ridiculous, even though I didn't deserve it: to give something of yourself to a woman is the most useless thing a man can do, because sooner or later she will throw him away, in the same way she lets an used napkin drop on the road. You are not worth the effort you require. You promise to give your tenderness, but then you take it back, like an usurer takes his money back with the interests, taking away part of your life and living you poorer and more in need than before.

One man among a thousand I found,
but a woman among all these I have not found.


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