"The pleasure of bringing a thought, feeling, [and] memory to life. The gift of creating that God shares with us mortals so that we may experience the small joy that he experienced in the beginning and before."
-Crimson-n-Clover

They think I'm crazy,
Think I must be absurd.
Why else might I spend my day,
Locked behind my bedroom door?

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I cannot face them,
Cannot face reality.
Upstairs, in my room,
Reality is pointless.

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Have they experienced,
Otherworldly things?
Can they relate to the whirlwind,
Whipping through my head?

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My fingers cannot type as fast,
As the words pouring into my brain.
Instead, outlines are my new best friend,
While I sketch out multitudes of ideas.

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Sometimes, I just sit there,
Pondering about the physical world.
Not always busy,
I tend to waste my day.

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My room is my refuge,
An asylum from the hectic world.
In my room I'm transformed,
As poetry flows from my soul.