The **** does it really?
The **** does it all mean?
To caren’t oh so freely,
To not aim to read in between.

The **** is this monstrosity?
The **** does this represent?
This self-aware precocity,
Diving and thriving in its own lament.

Possessions stemmed from possessiveness,
Losses that led to lenience,  
No ***** to give and not a **** to lose,
Too many have come and went.

The **** does it matter, truly?
The **** should it matter to me?
These thinking caps are on too tight,
I’ll embrace this coldness cruelly.

Not to say that I am so daft,
This emulation of me is unflattering,
I’ve come to love this newfound craft,
The ***** become irrelevant when they stop mattering.

There’s something about the heat.
The familiar sting on my skin that makes its way up,
Boiling heat that creeps through my veins and fills them up, up, up.
It heightens my senses,
It’s a breath of fresh air after almost being drowned.
The steam that clouds my vision to the point where I can’t remember a time when I didn’t live in a summer fog.
And I’ve never even liked the summer. The sun can go and **** itself for all I care.
What I like are saunas, gas lit stoves, fires, boiling water, matches, artificial heat, steaming showers, candles, body heat in a cold room.
Showers most of all, though.
So warm and wet that the mirror steams and your skin gleams.
Heat: it’s rising higher and meeting the burning tug halfway.
Redness surrounding my eyes, harsh against the plaster coloring of my cheeks.
A kind sort of fever, a comforting sort of fever.
A fullness that pools in all of the dips of my body: cascading warmth.
There’s something about the heat.

By leading with heart
Using a guillotine

Is where some start
Following Zen

And learning to crawl
Through ration of arts

Savouring the indelible sweetness
Helps lead the precocious

Enjoying inclusions
Doesn't have to preclude

Seeing with eyes
Can lead to deception

Best plant the seed
Using inception

That's why the Queen of Hearts
Whispers *off with your head