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"what was that you asked?
ah. yes. well,
night time is my time.
i start to see the target
eyes to the blind sky
hearkened to catharsis
i boarded in the doors, became a martyr in this darkness
sitting dormant and i'm pouring out my heart onto the parchment
when the chorus hits, i flourish. mixing marksmen with an artist
and i'm storing all the nourishment, you're sharp but i'm the smartest...
harboring the harvest while asleep to keep evolving rhythm, but
feelin blind today with the way my dreams have engulfed my vision
wheels of reeling splines the way it's blending in the fallen stitches
it's a feeling so refined that I pledged allegiance for all existence
it's my censor. shields me. i vent my feelings, absolved from living
all thats sick, demented, healed. suppressing fear for raw beginnings
on a mission and my logics endless, stencil in the scene for me
start my thesis, carve it to completion as the pieces meet
it's easy jotting images imprinted from a recent dream
trick is to contain them in your brain because they mean to leave
secrete into the sea of dreams as viscous masses of liquid matter
in time, i'll bring them back since the rings intact and it's a factor
the clouds arouse an inner passion as i sit within the blackness
these distant showers are timid actors reenacting the pitter-padder
i try to hide a smile but begin to laugh in mists of madness
you asked me what inspires me, consider this your answer"
-Edgar Allen Poe
March 3rd, 1833
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