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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "She was bra committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was brhard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up brbeautiful buildings."

She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
She was pain and pleasure all at once, wrapped up in needles and Ramones T-shirts
She always was devious in her beauty
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
Because, perhaps she was cold
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
She was never mine. I always shared her.
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
She was buttery. She was asking for it. She was delicious. Let's all give in.
He was an ant on an ill-defined mission. She was the trapdoor spider of love.
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field
She always was all tea and oranges that came all the way from China
He dreamt he was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty bed
She was too beautiful to be human
She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight
When that cow would walk it was like she was dancing
She didn't know what outside was anymore.
The girl didn't know if she was loved until he said yes.
I don't like her because she won't like me
For a lawyer she was surprisingly like a child. Sometimes.
"He was a terrible man," she sobbed, between bites of alimony
She was so tall, and I was so in love
Existentialism is that girlfriend who cheated on you. Postmodernism is who she was with.
She was locked in time
She didn't write like Emily Dickinson, but she did live in a house overlooking a cemetery, and I guess he thought that was important.
piano outside in the snow. and she was spinning
She was free
She was feminine in the most displaced sense I had ever seen, a known quality refracted through stained glass windows.
She is and was
He stretched out his arms but she was not there
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
I'm sorry I was speeding, officer, but I really have to get to the hospital
When she was bad
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
I set my sister up with her husband, and all I got was this great dress and a trip to Hawaii
She was steady
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
She was an intellectual prostitute, seducing me with profound truisms
She was the seed of a strange tomorrow
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
Her sleeves ride up on her arms when she moves
She was cilantro, jalapeño, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
She probably thought your first language was English; your real first language was Joyce
someday, when she will think back upon the time when she was as yet undishonored
To a girl who thought she was moving away
I was tired. It was late. She was Russian.
She was like a candle in the wind: unreliable
she was waylaid by an octopus
Outside the train station she was the only person wearing an Orange raincoat and a look of surprise
What the hell was she thinking?
And when she came back she was nobody's wife
She was the cutest necromancer I ever did see
She was watching me and I didn’t know it.
She was cilantro, jalepeno, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
She was very beautiful. Y'know?
She Was 18, It Was Summer
She knew what she was doing
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
She was thinking of a boy in California who had a couch and a job
Besides the part where she was the only one
The House on the Island Where She Was Born
she was once a stealthy ghostship in the fog, now she shines wherever she walks
She was coming out as he was going in.
She had become a mutton for punishment and he was a wolf
Jessica, too tall but still lovely, was not sure she would or should drop the whale
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
She was so pleased to learn that she was right
I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me.
The flowers smiled, but she was gone
she was just the dry smell of gasoline
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
That week with her was like drinking bubbles
She keeps her lies everywhere
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
does she need to touch her own face to know?
She knows no truth except her own.
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
Her hair was seaweed and the Pacific wind sang
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
serene. She sips her tea
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
She Will Have Her Way
And then night was here, after a day of measured breathing, and I could forget about breathing because the waiting was done
she had already found her party
I don't remember what her name was so let's call her Doris
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"
The Revolution was Postponed Because of Rain
That was what her hunger was like: mesmerizing, directed, floating like a public secret just under the cloud cover.
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
i wonder if that was meant to console
there was more poetry in her shopping lists than in any of my rhymes
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
I married him because he was not mean
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
Dust mop so magic she can not believe how fun it is to clean up after people
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
The portion of her face she allows me to see
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
Despite her station, the quarry was never alone
she lit her thumb on fire
No one learned anything, because there was nothing to learn.
She asked me to read her a poem
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
because his heart was heavy, closing, like a tired eyelid
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
making certain he was touching her
she gave her heart to a falling star
I was meant for this
Just because she's nice to you doesn't mean she wants to fuck you
She always confused her greys with white.
I got the feeling the Fairy Council was mad at me when the president knocked over her coffee to get a better grip on my neck
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
I don't think I was rude to her, just cold and curt
The sun was caught playing unashamedly in her auburn hair, setting our world on fire with giddiness
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
An ocean away and here he was, seeping into her
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
Where was her angel all those times the sky clouded over
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
At night, her eyes closed, she would
She wakes me up by tickling my feet
His ex-wife was so frigid, her clitoris was only the tip of the iceberg.
Seems I might have stolen the blue part of her rainbow, but all I really did was make it bigger, a way bigger blue
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
the way she wears her weary
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
All he left her was alone
Because she is unchanging, you are crazy
She had incongruity for breakfast because she felt like it
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
She practices her speech
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?

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