Poetry is like gusts of fresh air
Harbinger of the soul’s catharsis
Flowing emotions through the pen
Concealed pain written across the pages
Healing the pain which was long buried

Stuffed,
Grains of sugar fall to the ground.
Mutilated flesh covered in corn syrup
Wait till it dries, scrumptious.
Blood, red as cherry liquourice
Seeps from open wounds.
Body perforated at the
Arms
Legs
Head
Ready for dis-assemblage.
Save for later

Slow minds,
And
Hungry times.
Fire ignites a
Luscious green
kind of
magic.
Euphoria inhaled,
And
Stoners prevails
For we have
The upper hand
Held to our mouths
With the other
Not too far.
Lighter in hand
You are the
Magic man