...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SsKT0s5J8ko&ab_channel=MacMiller

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This place,

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This place is my sanatorium;

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It's where I come to collect myself,

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To codify expressionism

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Into useless little poems - 

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Half hearted portraits and delayed trains of thought

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Held up

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At a terminal, where those employees

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That're waiting, patiently, for me to leave

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Announce abruptly across the loudspeaker:

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"Engine in station,"

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"All aboard,"

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"The train will be departing at three."

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This place is for catharsis,

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For steeping, and for venting, 

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For tapping keys with the voracity

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Of a Thai boxer, wrapping his shins about bamboo

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In preparation for an upcoming fight

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Held semi-annually, in the center of the city.

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This place is sanctuary,

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A silent compass -

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Where I might hold a wicker candle

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To the charts and navigational maps,

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The antiquated books and meticulous secrets

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That indicate a course of least resistance

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Through a predetermined tempest, 

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And in so doing, provide for me a leger

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Detailing all manner and number

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Of buttons and hatches,

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Sabers, and breach-loaded cartridges,

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All spare sails, tar and marketable timber 

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Warranted

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To survive blizzards in the tropics

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And a summer-storm, occurring at the height 

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Of an oxymoronic mid-winter.

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This place is a cave;

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It is an owl's hollow, a cairn, and a barrow,  

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A lighthouse high-tower

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Or the bell-room and steeple, arranged

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At the very pinnacle of the cathedral.

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(break)

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(Quasimodo comparison)

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(aside:)

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(when a cocksucker that can't spell)

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(calls you an a*****e that can't write,)

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(well,)

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(then it's time to leave the website)

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