My brain is not a temple. My brain is not a shrine. My brain isn't a house, a duplex, a mansion, or even an apartment building. My brain is New York City. Loved for it's art and culture, but loathed for it's high taught crime rate. The heights of my intellectual Broadway could sweep you off of your feet, fill your eyes with a thousand stars, or just mug you before you even get to the show. My Central Park is vibrant with emotional flora, handsome concept cabs and creative attractions. It's scenic and beautiful if you don't mind all the druggies and perverts. My upper bay lobes proudly displays it's Statue of Liberal Ideologies, as she stands on my emotional island welcomeing foreign ideas from all over the world before treating them like crap as they drive my taxis of conciseness. My Rockefeller Center is 24 hour show time, broadcasting my whit and humor. It's structures are classic, old and smells like pee from the outside. My streets are paved with hopes and dreams, yet littered by my checkered past. And like any major city, there are some places where you just don't go! My skyscraper beliefs are built of philosopher's stones, rods of iron will and glass of clear observation. My Carnegie Hall shows all kinds of music from Rock & Rebellion, to Classical Misinterpretation. My subways are crowded with wanton sexual needs, busing about hungers and fulled by instant gratification.
That's my mind. Vibrant and dirty. Romantic and dangerous. It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.