She had just finish smoking the ****,
Then she decided to write a poem about smoking the joint
Or was it before she wrote the poem, or after she smoke the ****
Was the poem triggered by the ****, or did the **** triggered a write?
Does it matter now, after she rolled the **** into written words and smoke her ideas.
  

Al Cash once wrote that
*My soul absorbs you, my mind inhales your essence, and you confirm my life.” *
She usually took an aspirin after a terrible headache
But thinking out loud now she should have taken the aspirin before the headache
Or before she smoke the ****, that lead to the write
That eventually brought about the poem, which causes a migraine
Now her body reacts to the Drunken Sailor Syndrome
So once again never swallow a spider to **** a fly: just purge.

Never write a poem while smoking the ****,
Poetry is life natural high, an untimely wave that never
Cease to amaze us.

It's really fairly simple,
To love, and be loved.
Or at least
It should be

-on my mother's last months, or how
to do the final step without moving

I am not ready to go, she said.
I accepted doctor's verdict;
still, I ask: why me, why now, why?

     I hate these vultures, mother,
     that eat you from inside.
     I faintly see them through your skin,
     not even trying to hide.

I am not ready for resignation.
I am so angry about all this.
I am so angry with you.

     Your heart is cut in half
     and all we see
     is darkness:
     distrust, anger, fear.

I am not ready for all the answers
that wait for me on the other side.
Oh, let me have my questions please.

     Your brains are chopped to pieces.
     Little spans of time -
     that's all you keep in mind,
     and dismiss again with ease.

I am not ready to go.

     A premature Tibetan burial,
     a cruel death while still alive:
     witness of your own decay.
     So that's how Mother Nature will finally arrive?

I'll never be ready to go.

     Wait until she comes over the top,
     an almighty demon, an enemy from within.
     So that's our clean, sober, rational world:
     a cold, efficient killing machine?

I'll never be ready to go.

     I'll never be ready to go.

Inhumane was said  
Six million dead  
Gassed,slaughtered  
Degraded  

Inhumane we dare  
At Jeffrey Dahmer  
Kidnapper, killer
Evil embalmer  

Inhumane it read  
Black man dead  
Dragged by his feet  
Decapitated  

Inhumane we say  
A young man who's gay  
Found bound,beaten  
Left dead in the hay  

Inhumane we cry  
As so many die  
In crumbled buildings  
From terror in the sky  

Inhumane  
I hear say  
But only humans  
Act this way

I'm not here for small talk
I want to avoid the wave of
okays
and blank faces
I don't wish to drown in
meaningless conversations

How are you?
This isn't a surface level greeting
Dig deeper
How are you feeling?
Is your mind your enemy today?
Or your friend?
Or is there a disconnect, like an acquaintance?

How's the weather today?
I'm not talking outside
I can check that myself
but what is the weather in your head
Is it bland?
Is it nice?
Do you need protection?

Do you like this place?
This physical space
When you fully engage in the world
Do you like it?
What would you change?

What do you like to do?
How do you spend your time?
When the world is crashing down
What helps?

I'm not here for small talk
So don't get alarmed
When I try to get to know you

No matter how many times the waves crash against the shore
They're never quite satisfied..
...they want more
They never take a break
Always on the move
Both with the sun and the moon
They really do groove
Sometimes i imagine myself to be that wave
For ages now I have been crashing against the rocks and the sand
I don't know what exactly i'm looking for
I just keep flowing
I just keep moving
Perhaps i'm trying to find a purpose for my life
A meaning
A sense of direction
But after many a to and fro journeys from the sea to the shore
I've realized that it's a futile exercise
So now i've adopted the stance of a lake
I just lay still and let life take its own course
I don't have no big goals no more
I just have one simple goal...
...i want to be happy
...i want to be free
...free from all expectations
...free from all connections
...free from my ego
...free from my anger
...i want to be closer to my inner-self
...Frankly i'm exhausted
...my soul is looking for some elusive moments of rest
...i'm dying for a healing touch
...i just want to close my eyes and go into a deep sleep
...could someone just stroke my hair and sing me a lullaby please?
...of late i'm really missing my infant years
...those were the best times man
...i would just rest my head on my mother's lap and not care about nothing else