You know the hurting never stops.

You knew — you knew, and you know now.

You know that you can, you can stop —

you will, of course

of course you'll stop

as all will stop

and you can choose the time and place

the means, though none are fully pretty

some messy, ugly-hard to see —

but still the point is

most are quite accessible

and some are guaranteed

So why the whining? waiting? woe?

Why such dull dimwit trying, first this way, then that . . .

the trying — far too trying, trying now to live

softly, or loudly — sweet, bold, then droll

when you so know, you know each minute, all the brutal time

a different wrapping never changed a gift?

(curse the cunning, sexy little whore called hope)