Though I've always enjoyed the style of Whitman and Ginsberg, I've never really toyed with it on my own until last night. May-be crap, but it is still my own:

You for who I have searched and gone to such lengths to make my presence known, You for whom I have pondered, albeit without any cost to you; though in contrast, I've dream'd more so than lived: fairly I proclaim my own self-loathing for this, before any other should tell me to feel likewise, For with whom I would need to agree, as if neon lit or milked sickness, true; Though the pleasure would not be theirs while worn on my sleeve I have experienced such pleasures as friends quite dear; through symposium and in private, I have enjoyed their simplified answers to my woes (they have humored me so!), But there is an ache in me that will not be massaged by the occasional high spirit (though temporarily by the intoxicating variety), A child I am in my selfishness, though I know the prayer of the Buddha, But if there ever was anything so intoxicating as to have me throw away a True path, this Love would undoubtedly be it, leaving me forever unchanged and unfolded.