My heart twinges
and my ears roar
with the afterthought
of my actions
in the world. I haven't

believed my story matters
for some time.
There were days when I'd listen
to Buckie High by BoC
so frequently.

I lived through
that tune for some time.

Longing to connect through that
sweet nectar, the comfort of Buckfast;
The heft of a bottle that felt right
in my hand, an extension

of my body
and its beliefs.

There's too much of this city in me,
Too many memories, and
too many faces
that don't remember me.
Someone wanted my body, and it
made me remember how much I wanted to die.
It made me ask who would ever put their heart
in the hands of this bearded villain.
The struggle to be human
killed my ambition.

I smoked ***** with friends last night
'cause I can't relax, need
a reason to session
after attenuating those drives.

Dark as it seems, this
functional human being
continue to search for signs
of life.  Is it the good fight, or

is it the lengthy flight?

Practice forgetting.

There are some things
which should be forgotten.

The poems we write are being
consigned to the internet's depth
where the data does not express the

semantic intent. As for this poem penned
by the user Mydriasis [real name unknown],
This too will go, it'll pass on, fade out; because
everything is an echo.

A figure from my past
didn't recognize me,
And I didn't say anything.

My time is almost up, I long
to live in the 808 State.
Perhaps someday I will,
Or I may just find Death in Vegas.

What does it mean
to "...remove the issue of skill,
and replace it with the issue of judgement"?
What does it say
when a machine outstrips the human?

I find myself rationalizing
this creature's evolution.
Should I have said something?

Surely, but to what end?
I fear failure, yet I understand
its necessity. The pain of a paradox
so wondrous.

A buried chest full of forgotten anxiety, what a treasure.
As for the map herself, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.

For awhile I blamed my brain, and I tried all manner of things
to adjust its delicate balance of neuroelectrochemical readiness;
But I learned to recognize
less is more. Nevertheless,
My experiences left me with a strange ache in my soul
and a passion that keeps me asking questions

about existence, and whether I will
return to the compounds
I once cherished.
Whether
I am well enough
or simply brave enough.
Whether I will be content to study
the things I love without
holding them in
my skull.
Why should the psychedelic
renaissance be restricted to the sciences,
Why should it be distanced from the humanities?

We need a fair psychology of hallucinogenesis; we deserve
a better philosophy of psychedelia, and of psychoactivity.

Is it too much to ask; does this dream of mine make you laugh?
What about when I write that the downfall of philosophy is
its disdain of poetry, and that the failures of science stem
from its inability to reconcile with the humanities.
Emotion and reason can only listen to each other when
they are on level. Mind is not in the head, the soul is ecological

and humanity is losing touch.

The world that goes on around us
sometimes flows right past me
and the notions that grip
you and I, the motions
we go through every time
the creatures behind our eyes
meet; mutual experience, a moment

for that inner-child of ours
to shine through
and go wandering
out into the world together,

As best friends do.

What else is there to write, what else
is there? I can't imagine being together
without the fear of being torn apart.
I'm afraid it'll fall to pieces
so I embrace being alone.

I have to believe it's never too late.
I remember the kid, before the scars.
I hope to stay with this thought,

I wish I could stay with you.