The most refined flower becomes a weed.

I know very little of that which constricts my airflow.

Thoughts…

Keep on buzzing.

Some poetry.

The air heavy with nothingness as he waited for his sentence…

This is where I am at my best, under this cloaked confinement, I sit and rest.

I wrote this poem going on my 40th day in solitary confinement in prison.

The effects of being politically correct.

Love revealed itself to me when this world withdrew from me.