this |all for fun| addiction
set a course bearing
toward my total dependency.
LSD: I indulge once or twice a year.
A shamanistic, healing dance,
performed in the name of love,
and connectivity to ancient
echoes of my indigenous blood.
MDMA: I dance the whole night,
once or twice a year. Fill my
absorbent emptiness to its rim
with a tinge of feeling somewhat
reminiscent of happiness.
You think: dark. wasteful. reckless.
You think ill? Let me say, then,
as a person, versed in the first person,
weed is the worst. Weed: bad.
Here's the thing. It's easier.
To normalize. A gentle thing,
that doesn't hurt you, but.
I'm demure. Unfocused.
Unaware, again, of musculature.
I smoke to staunch. The aching pain.
But here's the thing: I don't move.
Is it just me? Possibly. Is it only me,
in this world of subdued fever?
Definitely not. That much: impossible.
I gave in. A time ago. To feeling calm.
I'm. I'm on top. High on pot. All the time.
I want. Want to stop. All the time.
It's true: I've become the traitor to our kind.
I like truth. Do you?
I need the truth.
I've fucked up.
But it's not.
Not too late.
I smoke weed. Every day.
I want to stop.