All my poems are gone and my friends left, too-- maybe I'll **** myself because I'm feeling pretty blue. I know it shouldn't matter I know I shouldn't care; they're just words on a page and thoughts in the air. But maybe my life was saved inside each one, a catalog, an encyclopedia, I miss them a ton. But I sail away on my cheetah print sheets to a passed out land of marijuana dreams and inebriated streets.