If you're a gas stove I want to be propane I want to fuel you. And I know I sound pretentious up here making a stupid, messy stab into the heart of poetry. Forcing it to bleed an open wound I don't know how to do this I don't know how to make you see these ******* characters that form words when words morph into lines then to stanzas then a ******* poem. Just a bunch of broken sentences but I guess that's why they say poetry is for broken people to mend their broken hearts. Love for the loveless hope for the hopeless poems are broken just like all of us us broken people with plastered smiles and Hello-Kitty band-aids holding together our shattered hearts. Such a beautiful art to be so broken. Like butterflies fluttering in the calm breeze. ****. I've always hated butterflies and butterfly knives and butterfly band-aids. So what am I going on about? As my heart looks to my brain it whispers softly, "Shh...I got this." Well then heart, might I ask you something? What The **** What do you have? My sanity, that's for sure. Do you even understand what you're doing to me? Huh? Do You? No. You don't see how when you break free free of those butterfly band-aids holding you together you're not fixed you're still crumbling to **** taking me down with you. Because then my body listens to you and says, "Oh, I'd better crumble down too!" STOP! I don't want to be a ******* poem full of pretentious ******* I don't want to be a broken sentence maybe a cracked one. Because let's be honest a whole sentence isn't real nothing is whole there's always gotta be a crack or a chip which is what allows us to break and to crumble to become nothing but charred remnants we've all been thrown into a pit of fire as people watch and laugh. Like we're some sort of freak show! Perhaps we are. Put here to entertain. When I was young, I was scared of freak shows. How could that lady bend like that? Wouldn't that blade cut too deep into that man's esophagus? Maybe that was the point we want to feel our days and nights are full of the same pointless banter. Becoming so numb to who we are, we long for a feeling of adrenaline to corse through our veins and assure us we're alive. You wake up and plaster on your best smile. What if you don't? What if you let yourself cry? Well that, would be feeding yourself to the sharks. They want to watch you bleed and taste your pain between their teeth as you slip down their throat like you're the sword and they're the man in the freak show. You're nothing of fear to them. However fear pulses through your veins perhaps that's how you became so numb. You feared the carnies in the freak show and the strangers in the street as their shoulders brushed against your's. Raised in a bubble but all bubbles POP now don't they? What they don't know when all those sharks swallow you is that you were never fixed your insides are still a pile of broken shards of glass so you're choked on spit into the air not even a ******* shark wants someone so broken. So tell me now why is poetry placed on such a high pedestal? No one loves so broken a man but they're mystified at the words one can place on paper in broken sentences to a ******* stanza we gawk at the people who's words flow like rivers and eyes are nothing but black holes poetry is supposed to be dark, deep. But, when you're truly so numb and empty, do you have that depth? I think so I think that when you have an empty hole where your heart belongs then you're able to feel the emptiness. You plunge your hand into your chest and brush the emptiness between your fingers just like sifting pink sand at a tropical resort little pieces of glass mixed in, eating away at that hand placing little cuts so you never forget you're being branded on the outside branded by the inside. By the only one you cares but also the only one who couldn't give a **** if you live or die; yourself. Abandoned by the ones you love rejection your papers passed through and they were slammed with a big red stamp reading, NO. They turned their backs as you fell through fire and met the devious sharks mouths forever is a hollow word filled with nothing but the air they breathe out as they whisper it into your mouth the taste filling from them to you it seems like a kiss of life. Giving you a reason to stay but you notice something... off something strange its like milky, bittersweet chocolate seeping into the cracks in the lungs you thought would save you but they only crack more under the pressure of the slimy goo and leave you wondering your thoughts pounce at you like a puma hunting prey. Did they ever even love you? no. The bitter symphony of their voice floods your thoughts and you know they never told you the truth it was all a trick for a cliche masquerade ball.