PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

On the constant puff of the thinking drug,

I drive alone on a drone interstate

It's interesting to watch the intricate in and out

weave of chit chat traffic

The mind finds its way in the pattern, then it skit skats and

shatters

Broken, or unbroken,

It's however you choose to look at it



People have the rage syndrome

They flaunt their fingers at you, as

if fingers mean anything

They say "fucking cunt sucker bitch"  over the

blast of their kids headphones



We shake heads and keep going.



See we become too used to things

Too used to the sounds, the lighting

We keep moving unaffected and unreacted

Ticking time bombs, I say.

And I say it carefully.



We hold too tightly to comfort,

and when comfort back hands you, you have

nowhere to go

and nothing more to say

You just drive, and ignore the phone

You become short, apathetically unphased.



And I would venture to say, that if you puff long enough,

monotony becomes history

And history becomes the news of yesterday