The poetry of a condom

The love of a condom is never satisfied. Never mind the size it will hurt you only one time. My dear, I wonder if poetry will bleed like how it enters the depths of a woman’s womb before it ripens or the much stiffer path of a man’s canal before the hand of a criminal. How happy are those who feel and yet how eerie it is for those who cannot heal. though you would never understand what it is like inside the arms that are never satisfied.

So, let me explain this in four points.

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