They say there are three ways people can escape their woes
Sleep,
Drugs,
And death

I've tried 2 out of those 3 things so far
And so far,
I'm tired of my bed
And my supply of green has turned red.

You see, my problems are a lot like my addictions,
Just a bunch of smoke and ash
Cause I can't get up off my ***

This poem is for the boy Who packs his happiness into bowles with no milk
And measures good times in grams (not. golden)
Nothing feels as good as purple
And redheads are only cute when they come off of trees.

Can't you see
I'm mentally ******* ill!!!!
But you know what they say
That sticky icky can sure cure the sickly.
Quite quickly

As a matter of fact
If you don't mind I please ask,
Have you ever smoked marijuana before?