as I sit near the sill of my window; eyes of my home
the scent of jasmine tinges the air; my sensual bridge
that the bonfire blistering days of summer seasons approach me, I know
that the tiny rocks that rattle in the basin of my guitar
must be lonely and without sound to keep them company.
when I write I feel quaint
more so than thinking,
more so than living?
when I write about myself
I only tell the worst parts
and that keeps me hungry
where is the good?
knowledge cannot be attained
when one's mind is weary; give up the geist!
and revel in insanity. You will,
you will, always in time you will.