rising star

All the while I thought, only women are so fond of gossips. But I was proven wrong by four d***kheads in my workplace. Why do they have to pry so much about my life when I don't even care about theirs? They must hate me so much, because I choose non-faggots. Perhaps it is their way to feed their children and buy their women and men clothes. How aweful...all their lives, they had to sell their goodness to survive.

Oh, these desperate wannabe's rely on the illusion and comfort that drugs could provide. That's why I became a controversy. To them, i am a shining star.

Sorry, boys. I prefer men with dollar accounts.

stealing Casanova

By the fair leather he sits,
deep in his thoughts.
Numbering his countless conquests
in bewilderment and steamy nights.

Late in the afternoon
I loved him in candid.
His strides - took control
of the world, of my heart.

More than power, more than wealth
his nose in its aquiline tilt;
Bashing lashes and gentle words
so perfect a timing when he held
my hand.

He posed to be only a quarter
of the man that I dream
But with the crunch in his laughter,
I become his concubine.

He lives his record
of twenty women kept
in twenty apartments,
and here i am:

aiming to dwell in twenty-first.

How i wish he speaks in French
or something more foreign
so that i will fail to hear
the hypnosis of his sweet talk.

But he speaks my language
and sings my song before me.
Availed himself for my grasp
when all else is dark and the road
seemed endless.

Even if I curl myself into a ball,
He would seduce, tease and tantalize
but leave me in torment

for this Casanova
will never be mine.

stealing Casanova

By the fair leather he sits,
deep in his thoughts.
Numbering his countless conquests
in bewilderment and steamy nights.

Late in the afternoon
I loved him in candid.
His strides - took control
of the world, of my heart.

More than power, more than wealth
his nose in its aquiline tilt;
Bashing lashes and gentle words
so perfect a timing when he held
my hand.

He posed to be only a quarter
of the man that I dream
But with the crunch in his laughter,
I become his concubine.

He lives his record
of twent women kept
in twenty apartments,
and here i am:

aiming to dwell in the twenty-first.

How i wish he speaks in French
or something more foreign
that i will fail to hear
the hypnosis of his sweet talk.

But he speaks my language
and sings the song before me.
Availed himself for my grasp
when all else is dark and the road
seemed endless.

Even if I curl myself into a ball,
He would seduce, tease and tantalize
but leave me in torment
For this Casanova will
never be mine.