What are real ramblings?

I’m giving myself 10 minutes to write this. No editing, no going back and erasing the part of myself that lay in the black and white symbols.

I have a question—a dilemma—that I’m not sure what to do with. I want to write poetry, and I want to share that poetry with the interwebs. But what is the line between writing poetry for myself and writing poetry for the excitement of the share? I want to write for myself, and I want my emotions to be real and true, but can they be when I feel pressured to post something, anything, just have some words on this page that is some reflection of myself?

When I write for the interwebs and not myself, are my words actually my own?

When I edit my words for the interwebs, are my thoughts shifted and altered in the process?

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Autumn’s Ownership

Swimming on trees and sleeping on ground,
veined sunrises flurrying miniature.
Afire in water, omnipresent they abound
through series of cyclical erasures.

Lighting the sky as earthbound stars,
as daytime’s constellated ranger.
Dancing the wind to lands afar,
those faerie-lifted spirits of nature.

Now: collapsing into possession.
Groped by an outstretched hand,
the vain outbursts of self-indulgent colors,
the leaf, is one with man.

I hate men.

I fear I’m falling into the trap
bitter bra-burning “that’s not what feminism is” claptrap-mousetrap

but what’s the alternative?
Loving them? Loving the rape, holdingdownforcingdown-pillage-penetration—blood+bones+brains?

Should I love you, men? Are you worth it?

Are you really worth it when you
you hurt me/you hurt her
her
her

But don’t worry cause it’s all part of the thrill: cockdrip-powertrip
so you can rest your foot on our cracking backs

you really can;
you are man.

(((how can I love?)!)…)