Drunk not yet plastered. so from this world I am my master. Realsms colide and I reside in the middle. Fiddle with illusions and reality, but my abnormalities keep me sane. Pain keeps me going as these weak emotions leave me in a realm of the unknowing. searching never seems to get old, but have once been told to be better. Not from this deases in which I bleed, but from the seed in which I plant.  My drestruction holds a sweet flower, the aroma it is unmistakablelike, like fresh durt being tuned or Like hair being burned. Detectable as it may be. I seem to to hope, wish, and pray to be free. To bad that's just the drunkeness in me. I love my garden because it is mine. Yet I have better flowers and fresh growth in mind. A pity that influenced thoughts will never flurish.