i sit on the edge of the bench
accidentally bump knees, hear a grunt.
i want this hollow to be quenched
waiting silently for my turn with the blunt.
most of them use it as a social crutch
but i'm just here to fill my lungs.
not here for the hope of souls to touch
just desperate for the taste of ash on my tongue.

there's the stereotype of the stoner
cares about nothing, apt to start stealing.
but this self destruction comes from being a loner
and often the feeler of too many feelings.
so i'll sit on this bench surrounded by friends
who laugh like it can cure their sadness.
to me they're just the means to the end
sharers of smoke which allows me to vanish.