I have never smoked **** in my lifetime.
Mainly because my anxiety makes me afraid of committing even the smallest of crimes.
But I know so many people that like to light up their mind.
And my sister happened to be one of that kind
She used to always smell like ****
She treated it like something of a need
I'm pretty sure if you cut her open then she began to bleed
It'd be a swirl of red, yellow, and green.
When I was ten and she’d drive me to school
Not telling our grandma that she toked while she drove was the ultimate rule
Sometimes she wouldn't roll the windows down cause she was a bit of a fool
And I had no choice but to **** in her fuel
The smell of **** makes me happy
And it's not because I'm a stoner or because I'm ******
My reason is sappy
And it's because when she took her last breath I’m pretty sure it was smoking a fatty
Her new favorite necklace became a colorful rope
And it was a symbol of her lost hope.
And the entire time she went down that slippery *****
Right by her side was a bag of dope.
Her dangling body was the only image in my eyes
Everything she ever told me started to turn into disoriented lies
And I began to despise the very meaning of getting high
Because my favorite stoner flew into the sky
Now I know that toking wasn’t the problem
The matter at hand was a bit more quantum
But it hurts because she was the Batman to my Robin
And now I’m here by myself trying to protect the streets of Gotham.
From a super villain pair called Anxiety and Depression
Rachel’s noose was their sick little invention
I keep trying to figure out what's the deal with their obsession
With the mangled corpses that give them their erections
I ask her everyday when I curl up to her hoodie
“Was it because you were bullied?
Was it because you spent too many days playing hookie?
Was it because you didn’t smoke enough of your goodies?”
The **** seemed to make my sister seem stable.
It was like her way of getting her emotions out without it seeming too painful
She never really thought of it as shameful
But it didn’t seem to help that April
I ponder on if the **** would help on me
If it would relieve stress better than tea
If it would help calm my anxious seas
If it could possible set me free.
Now I’ve never danced with Mary Jane
But some people say that she can drive you insane
You only have to let her in your brain
And she’ll take away some of that pain
The smell of **** comforts me and you might not understand
But don’t you dare try to command
Or try to demand
That I am too young to know about that greenland
When my sister committed suicide
A part of me also died.
But now I have identified
That’s it’s the smell of **** that makes that part alive
And I guess you won’t understand until you’ve cried
While you stood there discovering that your pothead sister had died
And began screaming as your two greatest fears would finally collide
And your world is overtaken by Grief’s high tide.
You know the surfer boy told her to hang ten
And I didn’t think she would let those words that far in her skin
But when the clock struck ten she had committed her deadliest sin
And I swear to God that a joint was the last place she had been.