You're a trip.

Bukowski would say, "with the po-po"
I'm pretty sure
And Keith RIchards would 
go into exile
for it
that freedom
to follow down the
dark and desolate
path thru
moments of 
rainbows with
perfect prisms
and sitting
in your
limbo
strumming lines
of poetic debauchery
celebrating the depths
and highlighting the pinnacle
of joy
it's the extremities in 
impulse
that matter
most 
in poetry or a song you can't
forget
that defines you
some part 
without obliterating
possibility