My home,
Up in there,
With the darkness,
That has been a share,
In my poems,
It isn't rare.
The home in my mind,
Is full.
Too thick,
To push or pull.
It is dark,
*****,
Empty of light.
And so,
It is so insensible,
That it's entrance,
Is inaccessible,
Because,
It isn't sensible,
There are so many blocks,
No sense can reach in,
But the entrance can be open,
When reminded of,
Or spoken of,
And they temporarily walk around,
Without control,
Because my brain is crazy to be controlled,
But they can show themselves,
Until they go back in,
The darkness not anymore thin.
I can use a block of my own,
That it hates,
A sensation,
Not feeling,
But mentally created,
Now this may be debated,
But a temporary mental nervana,
Caused by the craziness,
Making a haziness,
So thick,
That the thoughts can't show,
Only travel,
Without sense of the fog,
But the fog destroying it's sense.  
The darkness can't get around this.
Which is okay,
For me to know,
That never a day,
Will come where the darkness has devoured me as prey.