I've been trying to work on myself

On my mind

On my heart

On my interior

But no one sees that

You can't photograph how pure a heart is

Or how smart a mind is

How good of a person you are

I've never been a fan of Four-Letter Words,

never seen the need for profanity,

and thought swears showed a lack of self control,

Now, I haven't changed my mind

but four-letter words are more than curses,

Who are we?

We are humans.

We are life.

We are death.

We are what mends the bond to the earth,

and what breaks it.

We are complicated.

Inside us all is a soul,

In biology,

we learn that there are so many tiny things

in the interior of our cells

nucleus/cytoplasm/mitochondria/ribosomes/golgi apparatus

floating.

My interior,

it holds my feelings

The inside of everyone is two things:

Beautiful, like a flower in the woods.

And ugly, like the wars we choose to fight.

Yet, can't we find beauty in ugliness and ugliness in beauty?

What are we made of?

Flesh. Bones. Nerves. Muscle.

We are a cacophony of carrion all bundled together, 

Seen as holy,

Seen as beautiful.

They called me twisted,

Said that something was wrong with me.

Is there?

Is there really something wrong with the things I wish to voice?

I wrote things down.