Frost bit tips And mysterious junk pits Autumn feels alive I'm coasting on this high Smoky fences never die
On a trail with a hand that stands on its own and secret tea parties where shadows roam I saw a deer fly on the count of three and the grim reapers turned and fled from me
In the dark I form clouds My seat chains pounds As the orchestra begins Reality fades in
So this is my first poem on the site. This poem relates to a break up and how started coping by excessively smoking ****. This poem defines my daily life of escaping the reality.