Something whispers deep inside me
"You are the apocalypse."
So I set my pipe beside me
And think "I'm too high for this."

She's the type of girl you get ****** to
Late night conversations
Broken down wrapped tight
The type of girl you laugh & trip with,
Without intention of escape,
A means of quick get away.
The type of girl that's good for your mental.
Filled with hopes & dreams
Down for whatever, at anytime.
Not the average high you'll find.
Shes not a shot type of girl.
Out in the height of the night,
The one you turn to
to run away from your problems.
A bitter taste chased one after another.
She was the girl not everyone is familiar with
But has heard of.
Her type of high one of intellect
not easily found on the block.
Friend of a friend hipped on game


She was the type of girl that put you on the real.
The type you tilt your head to the left and puff.
The type of high you only dream about.
Real tokers know her brand of intrigue
The kind of high you keep to yourself

Music. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Over my shoulder, though,
I've got ghosts and granules.

Voices. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Evolved use of spoken
word, just to squander it.

I look around,
just to see,
loving my pointlessness
has afforded me,
nothing but
lack of company.

Quote me on this, please.
" I Love It "

Getting home.
Getting ******.
No aqualung, here.
Here, the lobes,
evergreen.
I'll die,
but I'm
perfectly fine
in my own eyes,
to be alive,
nowhere beneath,
yet.