QUIXOTICALITY

So here I am bloody shivering in this stupid room; air conditioner blowing directly at me, Beherit hood on, wearing black boxers, losing the nimbleness in my typing; it's so hard to do anything when you're cold, you lose your flexibility, your thinking goes whack, now i remember why I was such a dumb kid whenever it came to winters and/or snow.

So I wrote a poem about being high on weed, at the same time holding a jealousy of the guy in front of me who has a bigger joint/blunt/whatever size it may be and its street lingo coded term.

so here goes nothing/everything/something. I hate that line.

'Behold a foe;
A fool two inches greater.
I am 5 hours ahead of my own time;
recessing from this vortex of morality.
A congregation for my stupidity;
The parliament in my head;
Jesters argue, cheer and jeer;
I do not catch a word;
A blender of emotions;
A mosaic of words;
Marred in requiem.
Monochromatic a rainbow eaten by the shadows of the sky;
Breathing out clouds of refracted vomit.
Colours seek within me an atomic state of diabolism;
A painted canvas of debauchery.
A faceless mask pinned onto me to "injustify" my masquerade.
Far flung loops of animosity;
An ulcer in the sun.
Thus this enemy greater now by an inch;
Sickly this monolith besieging my intensity;
GET ME AWAY FROM THIS "QUIXOTICALITY"