You know you have good bud when finger tips are sticky
No seeds
Stems bend not break
Dank aroma sparks desire to elevate
Roll
Burn
Puff
Laugh
THC makes me lazy
Left sober with nothing to eat

Mom yells beacause an empty plate is left from what was eaten
A fork and syrup remain where flapjacks once layed
Lips sticky
A flying saucer lands on carpet
Ants investigate because I am lazy
Brain stimulation allows for barriers to be broken
Stress lives on the first floor but on A roof dwells laughs
So often I catch an elevator

Only mellow tunes can be heard on this elevator
Food for thought is french rolled not eaten
Worries drowned out from laughter
Now no situation seems too sticky
Ambition for new ideas can't be broken
At these heights interest has home field advantage over laziness

Nothing good ever comes to the lazy
Full potential could never elevate
Bad habits leave you broke
If you don't work you don't eat
Situations become sticky
When it's  back to the first floor where presense is absence of laughter

Only to keep from crying do I laugh
No longer high I mope around lazily
Mouth salivating for something rank and sticky
No alternatives for an out of order elevator
Kitchen cabinets bear nothing to eat
I am broke

But my spirits never broken
Sadly I watch other people laugh
Watch other people eat
Who's is really to blame for being lazy?
Stairwells are alternatives for elevators
There's nothing like being high on life
Less sticky

Breathe in, breathe out
Weird stench fills the air
I took 8 hits on the pipe
Feeling relaxed, feeling lost

My eyes turn red, very red
My mouth is dry; I feel famished
Wasted another day, all alone
All forgetful, all pain-free

Blue Dream, Purple Voodoo, Afghan, Green Crack
I haven't tried it all, only have one type
Feeling so lost, but relaxed
No sorrow I feel, no yelling I hear

Known as "illegal drug", right in my room
I should stop, this isn't good
It ruins my brain, my lungs, my life
Feeling very lost, feeling that anxiety

I get caught smoking outside
My life is done, over for good
They tell me to turn myself in
But guess what I have, guess what I have

Some pistols and a gun
I load 3, just to make sure
I should've stopped smoking earlier; but it's  all done now
I pull the trigger, I pull the trigger

Not missing the head

Smell the air; he fails.
His mother will be home.
Scrape burnt chocolate into the trash
and spray Febreeze.
Bloodshot eyes
and goodbye Mary.

The morning cigarette,
With a cup of igneous coffee,
On an early winter morning,
Alleviates the morning high,
Like the smoke from molten lava.

The immature ride to the vacant highway,
The zephyr gust from the near mountains,
Touches the juvenile jacket
And through the quietus of nature,
The wings inside sails away.

The green undertone of cannabis,
It's a rational sensation,
With every roll the paper silhouettes,
Like a shotgun of peace,
The buds displace on the white face.

The rejuvenating smoke calibrates,
Through the dry pipes,
And layers the ravenous soul,
Like a honey bee,
Pouring the golden sugar,
Into the barren depth of an empty bowl.

Like a centaur with tenacious wings,
Accelerating with the air,
Feeling every loop of a fresh wound,
Riding from north,
And taking the fear out,
Like a first raindrop to hit the ground.

The smell of sour smoke

the long sword of devotion
to the welcomed lack of air
and the promise of quick happiness

to the burning leaf
we’re all the same
one brain
to eliminate the threats from
our mind, the burning leaf
the boiling smoke, and calm sensations

Day proceeds to
night where the desire is hot
sun up or down,
you’ll always smile when the burning leaf is
around only until you deplete it

empty your pockets
the leaf demands loyalty
your life demands stimulation
the perfect pair for addiction
without accountability
it was you who lit up
it was she who was there for you while you did
your best
intentions are subjective
But all falls smooth to seduction of the burning leaf.

The alcoholic spirit,
   When by it I'm possessed,
Makes me crazy, (or near it),
   And often much depressed;

But the good spirit Mary
   (Belovèd Mary Jane!)
Is Alcohol's contrary:
   She makes me peaceful and sane.

O.O

now it's come to this,
my sweet marijuana miss.
ugh i cannot sleep.

[sweet pungent synthesis]
always with dank hysterical women demonstrating the distilled liquid elixir of their many years in isolation.
they are the nitrogen-rich followers of an ultraviolet shrine, such is
a photosynthetic life-form, reacting/enacting/enhancing.
they reach for holes in the moon &
on four-legged fumes carbonize seeds into sons and daughters. birth/
life.
all flowers ache forth to display color and/or
their varietals of hairy oil content.
to dip psychotropics, thus the worship of brain frequency and light.
fresh progress,
the sugar crystal compounds impacting, intact, and swollen.
trichomes, like huddled little masses of grandbabies bowed upon the ridge.
she drips
in dance and derives her form from properties plucked by time,
by moms, and pops.
to discover is to find purity in a moment.
pure travel/ pure
death.
this growing force,
this apparition of sound within me. organics.
organisms bound by great beauty and failure.
sense not the vivid panic, or the shock of last black, but hold true
to an inner joyous/outer motionous, tessellation that is, this
fluttering of us.
us suit of hearts.
suit of leaves.
the fusion of two bodies far beyond substantial pressure.

boy coils in the lawn
& early air.
grass touching him wet,
smoke crawls from his lips,

into the blue awoken,
or sky before his face.
there it dances like wild life lived
& falls away with breezy.

dearly herb to glossy reds,
he purses, thus to inhale.
sparked ember, spark clench, fist to fist.
life given to life encapsulated.

the sense of it goes steady,
goes patent cool.
he exhales, and looks to the south,
where his legs once were.