Roots all are but in earth fixed
Blind,groping,for succor hungry
Aimless,embraced soiled,underground.
No longer hunger do I for mine now
History its to be rooted,death untimely,
Being rotten,eaten dryly weak,rejected
Let me be that airy tree fairy,breathing green
Spreading wings,feeding airs joyous,free,
Or a carcass dead,by mothers all deserted,
By nature connected, still life and beautiful!

It's been used on the street.
Used outside of the medical
profession.
Y'know, it's an altogether
new thing.

It can be even more important
than reading the bible.
Children as young as nine
are enlighted with ritual
consumption.
Student priests. Brainchildren.

A moshing chapel, a bouncing
church.
Holy orders have volunteered.
Five groups of four. Four groups of men.

With his eyes, he asked for
water, as deep as wells.
Brain unrooted, profound psyche.

What matters now? Dawns on me.
An experiment, an experiment.

What comes back? What expands?
Everyone that you meet.
The man, the man, the man.
Your duty is not over.

The surprise is:
the cross is the drug.

Sitar sounds and biting.
Chewing and *******.
Swiss lips and big trips.
Explosions and headlines.

Brighter colours, paisley skies.
Giggling teens and sighs.
Spare ribs unite, yellow sweets.

All to do with round.
Monochromatic world turns to
dreaming and doing it all.
Everything, I can do it.

But It's all too much.
So many ties and looking to
your eyes.
Love shines and trombone slides.
Social liberations, my friend.

Feminism, it's for the doers.
Taxes, real worlds, living on it.
Escape is far worse.
Easy actions and breaking
through windows.

Use it proactively not as
recreation.
Same effect as a man getting it.
He feels it going.
Terribly uncomfortable, alone.

Escape is suicide. Lies, lies,
Exagerration, laws, again lies.
Too many idiots, not enough cooks,
Too many chefs, not enough books.

News is what has given particular
concerns with the true risks.

Mr. Illicit tells us the risks.
Accidents and Supermen and flies.
Don't believe in the invisible
trains and cars.

Mental Breakdowns are wonderful
only when it's dependant
upon the setting. Too much again.

Vortex of fear, darker sides.
Rolling and sadness.
Initially the experience was
as advertised. Ancient fossils live.

A new green, a new blue
New sunlight. A new shape.
Terrifying proportions if you
camp in the wrong field.

Lethargic pigs sliced and green.
Cartoon kinda monsters.
Hahahahahahahha, we've GOT YOU!
Negative, feelings, never again.

Secrets of the mind, they chase.
It's the mis-use. It's the bad.
It's the guilt, it's the right way
Only without respect.

The larger group,
it ruins everything for
everyone responsible. Why?
Why cant't you just ******* make
drinks illegal?
Why not cancer sticks? Sickening.

Leave love alone.
Afraid that there is more to
our doors, that haven't been opened.
Out of control? You are out of control.

the unrooted soul
who knows only wind as home
and land as its cage

“I think that I shall never see”
a tree thin as phylogeny,

looks poor, no fruits nor leaves for tea,
Yet means so much as Darwins see.

rooted, unrooted, a weird tree,
well, Nature, too, selects weirdly.

No other tree much affects me,
keeps changing my taxonomy,

splitting-lumping, lumping-splitting,
because more data keep coming.

“Poems are made by fools like” you,
but cladograms, don’t make me blue.

it's like how can I start fresh
if I can't erase
hating everything I seem to create
stray to think different
but my soul is caged
hidden under floorboards
are the ideas I make

but I feel calm and at home
in the darkness
feeling cold and lethargic
but creating art
with my fingertips
alone with the hopes and the gods
I illustrate pain
in slow and graceful strokes

tirelessly knitting an infinity scarf
cooped up in a small room
with my mouth sewn shut
I lyrically piece together scraps of
the thoughts inside my head
to write an unauthorized version
of me instead

working steady without pause
till the ink dries up
words spilling out truths
of my purest disgust

I am the artist whose painting
to begin with was fake
I am the unrooted vine that grew
despite its wilted fate

There must be a poison in your breathe
A spore that plants itself in my throat each time we talk
Enough to make a garden bloom- flowers that fill up my lungs and pop up through my eyes when I look at you

I urge to pluck the butterflies that crowd in my chest and set them free around your head, so maybe you'll understand the effect you have on me
I'll give you the bees that buzz through my mind when your hand brushes up against my own
And the tree trunks that settle in my legs when the distance between us once again grows

But this garden inside of me,
It overflows with a poison edge that stings through my body
Like tiny knives that grow on trees, digging in my skin, letting out a strangled cry with each time my eyes lock with yours

A flood washes away all the flowers in my eyes, and fall steadily down, hanging on my eyelashes until I am forced to recognize they've been unrooted
The butterflies drip down like hot wax, burning my throat and lungs until smoke begins to billow out of my mouth and strangle me
And the bees burrow into my brain, stinging as they go, filling my mind with barbed wire until it feels like my skull is not big enough to handle the mass suicide taking place in the furrows of my mind

I cry out in pain
I beg of you, why does it feel like the only thing left alive in me is my pain
But you're already gone
Leaving me to cut out the dead tree trunks that have settled in my legs

branches run like the veins
across my fair-skinned arm
much like a dead one
am I unrooted
fallen, life poured out of me
a bare conifer still breathing
life into something
someone

I built a garden in my chest
with things you never said—
planted hopes in rows of maybes,
where your silence softly spread.

I watered it with almosts,
trimmed the silence like vines,
taught the leaves to chase the light
you never said was mine.

But nothing real grew—
just a heart dressed up as soil,
soft enough to cradle you,
but never meant to spoil.

You were the seed that never stayed,
the wind that kissed, then flew.
And I — the ground where you once rested,
but never rooted you.

Apluad malcolms quiet stillness.  
Unrooted like fallen timber, and now
to be a soiled waste of passion.  
Mr.  Flood,
Sneaky Mr.  Flood,
Poured ***** in the urn.
One more drink for lifeless
thoughts.  If it be the way of death.
If it be the way of death.  
was it an ugly truth,  Yes,
And malcolm knew how ugly it was.
All the world like a bag of oranges.  
Carried  in high frutose fashion.
But,
Malcolm has no say to be involved in any
more chancless pursuites.  It was for the best in
his case anyways.