I write a lil' poem every now and then. Didn't attend high school, but I have stuff from the time in which I would have, had I.

And I suppose I have written a song or two, and I say this to let everyone know that these songs are quarantined inside a maximum security setting. No one shall ever have access to them. This is for the best of everyone.

Instead, I'll post this other poem. It's inspired by a song I heard once, and I wrote it as I was going a little crazy. Also, I do not really believe in god. I guess I just enjoyed writing about god.

Insane Asylum

There are many words for insane. You won't believe. Crazy, nutter, unstable. You won't believe you have gone insane. But there you are. Cup full of bugs.

Yes there are many who have lost their minds to it not because they couldn't see but saw something real penetrate a blackness, not with the light of God and the way he shows us but with...

And there are equal amounts of words for drugs for those who couldn't see the light of God, the face of God they couldn't because the face of Good is deadly only to those who see it it has only one real name. It is not easy, you see, to stare onto his perfection that is -- the perfection of his hand -- the highest of corridors. It is not easy to stare onto his perfection or to say his name and die for a night or day -- to celebrate a terror in the dreams that so frequently haunt a man or a woman or a child is the name of God and the rest are only false in someone's words or someone's blackness penetrated that ocean in someone's mind.

And so I walked through his corridors. These were the corridors unto his perfection where people lined, by the walls where I walked, I penetrated the entire Black Sea

I saw these were not all Turkish oarsmen, the bottom layer. Some were Christian Some were high blood... I tasted the salt, I saw in complete darkness that there would be nothing left of them in this world because they couldn't see the face of God in the light of God and so they would never die and so they would never speak in jubilee to their high king.

Dream city to visit: Bombay. Maybe Tehran since sanctions were just lifted.

I mentioned God as a theme. I like working with unreliable narratives. Nonsensical prose structures. Mind & memory.

And I love the eastern theme of stuckinthe1800s. Using "foreign" languages, nationalities, identities, is all really great. It takes the reader on some good journeys while reading.