i don't feel angst. i don't feel depression. i just deal with the facts. and factually, i don't have a connection with anyone i know. everyone else, it seems, clicks with others. somehow i'm always aside.

looking back on my short life -
the choices, routes, directions, adventures
pieces of writing, loves, conversations, memoryless days -
i can't think of anything more important or worthwhile
than everything i am doing
right now

remembering the subjects who had seeped into my poetry
really, just the one, but there were others throughout the years
and even more as time wore on
maybe it's better if i don't write about anyone
because, it seems that anyone whose idea is imbibed in these words
leaves eventually or just outright dislikes me

i've been writing letters to people
notes that they won't ever read because of a number of reasons
maybe i'm too shy to tell her how beautiful she is and how much i
or maybe it's more prudent to not antagonize someone and let them chase (or refuse to) whoever he
or perhaps i just don't want to scare another pretty and interesting love prospect away
is it cowardly?
is it fear that holds me back? of good? of evil?

i want someone to sit down and devour all that i've wrote
to see if they can understand me

but really i just want the satisfaction
when they say no, they never understood
and now even less so

so how do i make you see?
that with
(never underneath)
all these fractures and burns and scars
there exists a human
capable of

so much more than what i'm exhibiting right now

yet in dire need of

something to enable

the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

This is very good. I really enjoy the line about 'devour all I wrote' and the next part dealing with satisfaction. It's something I'm sure a lot of writers can relate to.
i've been wanting to get to this for awhile and now i have the chance. this is incredibly relatable to me, personally and a lot of what you said hit home. there some parts in here (specifically the part from "i want someone" to the end) that strided magnificently. and there were other parts that seemed below than what you are capable of, parts where i feel you could definitely do better (like the "i've been writing letters" stanza; i feel like it could be cleaned up)

but at the heart of this is a quiet desperation that you nailed. i hope this conveys what you wanted to convey and give you some relief to what you're feeling. for me, although writing may not make my days any brighter, it can at least make me appreciate the darkness a little more.

anyway, a really good piece
here, My Dear, here it is