I can't believe you still gave it a six?

Not precisely, but upon further review of your poetry i came to the abrupt conclusion that you were born to be a poet, and I just wanted to let you know that I've studied your work to improve my own. Because poetry is everything to me. Like the way you cinch it up at the end nice and undeniable, leaving the reader breathless and smitten, I just love that, you're great at that, and how you build and release and connect dots most are completely oblivious too, by merging symbolism with fact and folklore and love and longing and mundane routines and life. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not (oblivious), and I think you're an extraordinarilly gifted writer. Now, back to me. lol. I wrote a sestina today, the first on poemranker. It was like bench pressing a lead bellied midget with no thyroid, but I believe I nailed it. I only lost a foot digit and my pants. Also I wanted to thank you for your direct criticism and sharp feedback. I know most believe me to be heartless and cruel with my critiques, but I'm just sick, of belonging and loving an art form that leaves the artist in between the weekend poets and the greats. I want people to know that I live to write poetry first, and worry about feelings and smashed toes later. I mean, well, I paid my dues i can perform poetic surgery now and it just freaks me out to see weekend poets trying to perform a double bypass with a cracked ash tray and a billess hat. They're fucking everywhere. I'm buried under an ocean of them, and I just wish that they'd get off the pot or shit. I don't want to die an unknown prostitute. I want to belong to something. You know what I mean? Anyway, thanks for listening Christof you're a poet that i look up to, and I consider you as one of the best.

Kids---are expensive, and loud.
But yeah.

WtfAsl.

The sad fact is they give track of the day shit to any sucker that comes along. And I haven't left my front room in three years. My tour bus is a super man lunch box with pringle's tupperware and a plaid thermos, and I'm also the drummer, guitarist, rodie, manager, bass player, and grilled cheese maker. Life is dire, oh well. Cheerio. Do you think if we finally drive someone to suicide they'll award us or make a movie about us and our dominion?

What did you think of stanza three by the way?

I think you'e a pissed off fourty two year old plumber with three nipples and a large alcohol tolerance, that sometimes enjoys miniture golf and lazy nights walking for hours, alone.

I meant Alexasse Briquette, but naturally you knew that.

My motivation? Simple, to laugh, try it some time, go ahead read this out loud and try not to laugh.

Maybe not, unless you would purposely rack sack your haikus to rid the scent of us mad hounds and anny up on your poetic prose. Ah, who cares, you're a damn good poet regardless of who you are, or maybe not, maybe because of who you are. Listen children, I've had an epiphany, live life to the fullist, taste the good and the bad to know the difference, be a jack of all trades.

Rumi's good stuff.

Get a life, I believe if my memory serves me correctly. Which it does.

Perhaps, sister, the other locusts ate it's wing and it's now a hitchiking cricket with a whoremonica?

Fyi I was raised by lobos, and have no clue as to what you are speaking about, but thanks.