has fallen on my fingertips to
write, write, write.
like the city's fog,
thoughts are muddled in a mixture
of truth and lies.
i spend my days strolling
down broadway asking the
price of sex and love.
in my own mind, too,
wondering what the difference is,
and if i can be pure and loved.
or if the johns i see and meet
are everyman.
and if someone will prove that not every woman is a whore.
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