Marijuana

Patchwork Herbology

At behest of the man who's drowned in the moat;

he thought well of leaves that could keep him afloat.

So gardeners worked to supplant and suffice

in pale, sullen light that was straining their eyes,

and were able to clot the freshwater vein

with acrid greens that splayed like a lion's mane.

 

The caretaker's jest came sudden and flowing:

these foreign shrubs had a fierce way of growing,

and control was waning and not to be had

by the fearfullest man who couldn't be glad.

So brought the trimmers and the matches and lo,

down came the patchwork garden we'd come to know.

 

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Bathing-pool Prohibition

Folder: 
Poetry

I was in the bathing-pool,

Together with Alhireth-Hotep.

After the fun we had,

I rolled a stick of marijuana.

 

I didn't kindled it,

But burned the top down.

Then a woman came to me,

Telling me it was forbidden to smoke here.

 

I explained to her what I was doing,

And that I didn't lighted it here.

However my story was,

Alhireth-Hotep and I went outside.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A dream I had.

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Overwritten Despondency

every breath I take is another mistake, each exhalation, lingering in this lonely space..
i'd love to just break down & cry.. but puff, pass, i'll let out another deep sigh.. 
the taste of your skin is like... pale sin.
& your smile as dead as the love that's spiraling downward into the drains of past content..
it filters out all the shit.
your eyes feel like daggers, when they're on me..
maybe that's why you can't truly see.. why do you even bother to criticize me.. why hasn't God set me free..?
 
like a fish, starving.. going in circles, de-sha-vu, I don't remember you..
but my intuition tells me otherwise.
an insect, hearing it's last words...
crushed, beneath the foot of mankind.. what sort of man is really all that kind..?
a bird, rattled in a cage.. shaken up.. absorbing rage..
being fed the scum that's left, to hold you sustained..
 
it's like not being able to turn to the next page..
& everyone keeps writing over the page i'm on, & telling me to read it once again.. & again.
until it's all scribbles, on top of one another.. it makes no sense..
you might as well be spitting on me... this is an overwritten despondency...

Ripshit

About a man that is centered inside a smoking bubble,
with view obscured and his thoughts expansive and loose.
He does very little breathing at all, and instead
he chews on the walls of his cage to rid his mouth of taste.
The bubble has a door, but he doesn't care to reach
and intrude upon the people that often stand outside.
Instead he learns about pointless things and people
and ignores the ignoring that seems like it's everywhere,
all the time, no matter how long he waits in bed.

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Absence

All these beautiful words are choking on the smoke

That I carry in my throat like a pardon letter worthy

And I often have to hurry to keep myself awake

But what often is at stake is why I tend to worry

I'm parting at the seams but still in my departure

And every now and then I slip between the waves

I behave in such a way that may suggest I am forgotten

But in my spacing wastes I know I never am

I feel an empty vessel that's desperate for touch

A toxic thing that tries to sing and chokes upon its tongue

Bathed in lots of green and grey and smelling like the fields

Yielding to the simple fact that I am lost to change

Estranged the girl who was, apparently my reason

Exposed myself to all around just to hang my head

Live alone with just enough to slide along the side

Never weeping, only breathing, frying all the time

Keep the glass to my lips to ward away the barrel

And watch me close and lend a hand when the dark invites me in

Because I'm there now and I'm tilting

Because I'm in dire need of friends.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This website's community confuses me.

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