Come and look at him,
you couldn't fathom the
battalion of phantoms that
inhabit my atoms.

I sit here with the license to
abuse my barbiturate and vices,
They are never subsiding.
Lamp lights become blinding,
Imagination and heart rate climbing,
Muscle tightening from typing and transcribing a
666 page book from automatic writing.

But even tho you just flowed with him,
You still don't know him,
Listen to his hymns
of the Divine King residing inside of him.
Check the glow of his skin,
The twin angel wings now attached to his limbs,
as he floats upon wind.

You wouldn't comprehend all the hours I've spent wrestling with my pen so it could obey my every whim.

I write sonnets nightly,
You have taken your gift
of writing too lightly,
Your so unlike me.

My pen is dipped in the blood of the Lamb,
just like these tattooed hands,
marked with the name of my clan.

Every now and then
in a sacred garden
he spits rhymes often
in a soundproof coffin ….
…cause its only God and I when I'm talking...…