All men that once mattered, one or two with haunting ghosts
I put each name every time my heart could not contain
Names - sometimes initials - that became uncontrollably wild
The pen was not any of those men's genital; it was always mine
A psychic lady told me not to put a man's name in writing
For my own welfare, she said, else someone was betraying
The pen killed the names, one after another, sometimes altogether
Stay away from the tip of my pen, stop swaying and swirling!
Am I in love with you? How is it from the perspective of illusion?
You're young, lean, soft-voiced, and that comforting dark past
Now you're standing still, smiling. I know what's behind your back
