Frankness seems to be the running theme so let me be that
Why does the work the energy the life the everything get taken?
Nothing more than the playthings of a bitter god a bitter people a bitter world
But bitter isn't the right word no
Not bitter

                                                        cold

A cold world of cold people except for the hot tears that freeze on my face
icecicleman
How loud do I need to shout how much do I need to cry do I need to swim or drown
until I feel anything warm except for the tears in their hotcold rivulets?
until I feel anybody touch me or care or look or respect or love or anythinganythingany
until I feel someone
                                 anyone
                                                at all?
until for once i actually get to come down off the wall the flower stuck there forever
until the frostbite ripped into me by the coldworldcoldpeople warms
until i finally can be someones friend or anything or
just
       matter
                    ?

[redacted] I totally agree but [redacted]
and you have no idea how much [redacted] and still I [redacted] but
you are so [redacted] I'm [redacted] so then what [redacted] to
say except [redacted] I l[redacted] and nothing can ever change that
even though yo[redacted] to redact it and maybe i do t[redacted] but i refuse
iloveyouiloveyouilo[redacted]veyou

I love you

i am the madman in the cave
talking to the shadows

When everybody tells me that I can be anything I want,
I was born to do what I want,
I believe them.

So, I was born to be wild.
Or maybe I was born 2 b wild (numeral and letter)
or brn2bwld (no vowels nospaces)

I'm a poet and I'm proud to say
**** form     and while im at it, **** the word
*** (no c) and **** the grammar of needing to put the apostrophe in im
Because I write as i want i am as I want and nothing can
Change that.

like gatsby the Great i have given birth to Myself and
I am me, no
One                 ELSE
not even gatsby or any Ayn Randian wetdream dreamed of on a midsummer night because
fk (no c no vowels) Shakespeare and fitzgerald and the shrugging atlas

becuz (uz instead of ause)
this is Me

and no One, not a duckface peacesign Mona Lisa or a bandanawearing bazookawielding Benjamin Franklin
can ever destroy
t     h     a     t

because (no change) I am born to be wild (no change)

I never understand.

You're a whirligig, spinning this way and that
on the whim of a breeze or a sunray with me

                                                                                    trailing     behind

a demented kite catching the flak
picking up the                        slack while you fly

                                                                                                            free

libertad      por siempre
at all                       Costs

                                                                           come Hellorhighwater

not for you to pick up the flakslack
leave it to your kite demented

I never understand.

I guess
The biggest
Thing is that
I wish I knew
You better.
Because, let’s face
It: You’ve already got the looks
Down pat. I mean, where to
Begin? The eyes, the luminescently soft
Marbles, the most beautiful paradox I’ve
Seen? The sly, wry raise of your eyebrow
Or the clever upturn at the corner of
Your mouth? Maybe the smile as
A whole, white teeth happily exposed?
Or possibly your skin, a warm, golden
Invitation to be touched? Or
Should I start with the whole
Shape of you: strong lines in your face, in
Contrast with the curves elsewhere?
I guess
It really doesn’t matter without
The biggest
Thing. Yes, there is a
Foundation, but there should be more.
All it takes is to talk to you,
Or you to talk to me.
Maybe when I’m
Stronger

(as if it actually matters)

It's a good thing we have skin. Otherwise
we'd have to see our filthy hearts, beaten and
                                                                             scrubbed raw,
Torn   apart   and  pieced back together with
Masking                                                     tape
                    Dented and bruised with abuse blackandblue not red
Except for the
scabs and sores and cuts and holes waiting to be filled
                                                                             With something
anything.
                  They contract, retreat to the beat of
desperate breaths   and                                         lonely sobs
Pumping a polluted river through our veins flowing with all the
                                                                                       Refuse
The tears and unsung songs, silent pleas drowning under
                                                                                    the weight.
                                                                                    All while we flash
Our pearly whites shake our bony hands
And say hello and how are you and fine and very well

thank                                                                        you