There is a place I can go to in my mind that makes no sense,
not a lick of it, not even to me. And I thought it.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes some sense is made
there's occasions.

It's like mental poetry in a way from free form to blank verse,
a ballad of ode to shakspearean haiku. There are so many
styles, types, and formats but all of them loose, or strict.
A rhyme scheme, or maybe not. There's occasions.

My mind is full of loose connections, detailed connections, high voltage
connections, synapses. A taste, that flavor, a smell, so enticing, and then
it all just ends because I got bored, Hey there's occasions.