Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******* history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.

Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.

Uncertainty clings to my mind
like morning due to brand-new greenery.
I know not what weeds lurk unseen
nor of the beauty that has yet to be

should I remain a lone flower
sheltered in the shield of a sepal
in waiting for my hour of opening
unprotected to the **** of people
yet fully alive, honest and free.

OR am I that withering ****
in need of severing with one Swift swing .
harsh enduring and ruthless
a hideous prickly mess
growing at the price death

one day will I grow to bare a beautiful fruit
or
draw blood from those that pull on my root

*****
****
coke

don't come
home

here ain't ya place
anymore

mommy forgot you
dad burned all
your pictures
dad destroyed your old
room

i hate you

besides:
got some blow?

Procrastination,
A lazy man's tool,
Cluttered bedrooms and takeaway food.
Every day tasks,
Now that's a situation
Sleeping in until your own damnation.

Waking and baking,
The day goes up in a blaze
Calling in sick to work,
But you are faking.
Trapped in a haze,
Stuck in my old ways,
A lonely stoner in the making.

Old rings grow great
But the circles are less perfect.

Have to squint
To make the shape
Stand Stout.

Purple on black-
Looks bright!
******* on ****;
High as a kite.

Some mornings
Stay stale
As old cheese in the fridge.

Stagnant.

No matter how hard I stare,
Or how much I squint,
I can’t make the blood
On palace walls
Look like liquorish.

I cant make the holes
In my shirt
Look like button holes...
Find the perfect partner-
My hand in hand;
To lead me across this ravished land.

To make it feel alright.
Like human means human.