I am a lover unlike any other.
I am delighted to play with words every day.
Rarely does my pen make magic and it rarely speaks the real me.
I live, I love, in all ways imaginatively.
Put delicately with my funny pen.
My pen sometimes pokes eyes out, or I expire strapped to an old oak chair.
Sometimes my topics may rile and you think that I  don't care.
I write of love, I write of lust..sometimes mischievous erotica.
The real me's a little girl.
She's  hiding in my deep dark heart.
I'm giggly and very silly, daily turning tricks, not ****** tricks, but silly tricks while I'm playing with my dippy words.
I like nothing more than playing silly games, silly games with dozy syllables.
I live to write.
I write to live.
And so the games go on .
(c) Livvi

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
'I'll do a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use,
2B or not 2B?'

I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer
      and you a woman who loves the man who runs a drug store.

I don't care like I used to; I lay bricks straighter than I
      used to and I sing slower handling the trowel afternoons.

When the sun is in my eyes and the ladders are shaky and the
      mortar boards go wrong, I think of you.

i fall asleep in the a.m. hours with my necklace holding my veins together, tight enough to remind me of your fingers interlocking in the very same place.

All I ask is when I die
that these pages be left
over my grave
giving power to the wind
hoping it whispers my love
I never had a chance
to tell you about