Something inside me wanted to be touched.
It's the kid in me, the child that remains,
deep within guarding and embalming walls,
it is being smothered to sleep.

I tried to ignore it, tried to reason with the inner me.
Told it I was man, and wasn't supposed to feel thus.
Told it weakness would not be tolerated,
Emotions are to be kept hidden at all costs,
told it scorn and jeer would follow truthful wists.

Then I tried to feed measured dosages,
to thwart its tantrums and pain.
I tried impersonal affection, self-indulgence,
alcohol and meaningless sex.
I tried drugs and boredom, immersion in work and habit,
tried crying privately, or writing emotional poetry.

It begged still, persistent and reluctant to be quiet.
So I looked for love, for a caressing, soft touch.
I looked long and hard, and found many close resemblances,
All of which have harmed me
And it far more than I care to consider.

I went through the vicious cycle -
reluctance, optimism, pessimism, hope.
I threw my heart in all directions,
and had it sent back in ribbons and shreds.
I surrounded myself with walls, with loneliness in a shell
only to be slowly driven outwards perforce
by silent cries from within.

And today I stand anew, gazing out and hoping yet again.
The child is weak, timid and shy from pain and neglect,
but in times it shines out happy and bright,
in times it smiles,
in times where a hand caresses mine,
in times a hug is shared.

To this foolish child, a kiss is a promise;
in vain I try to counsel it of caution and despair.
I fear for it as it trusts, blindly and willfully,
I shed my tears over it as it cries defeat.
I grew weary, bitter and thin with this;
not strong but fragile,
hard carapace with cracks.
But the wish for the one to make a pair holds true,
The wish for another soul to not run,
To not harm, to bring this child out to her for
acknowledgment,
For acceptance, for life.