"stoners" poems
The marchers make their way today
through town to Cardiff Bay
with whistles, shouts and banners up
for sweet old Mary Jane
they're marching for her freedom
all ages, colours, creeds
have come in joyful spirits
to help us free the ****
The rich, the poor, the movers and shakers
the blowback kings and part-time partakers
the rollers, the tokers, the bongers and such
the teenage goth stoners who've had way too much
skin up as they march while making their point
and meet up with new friends while sharing a joint.
Then down at the bay side
when the bands start to play
they'll **** in the sunshine
till the end of the day.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
I have a bad case of the munchies
Should have took a right
Maybe the next exit on this stoner highway
Will lead to munchville
This 1991 Chevy S10 is Casa de marijuana
Stoners only ride
6 oz of berry white
2 oz of bubba kush
3 1/2 gs of Pineapple Express
I'm ******
Yet I've only had 4 bowls 2 extendo blunts
And 1 braided joint
Lost my touch
Hold on
Let me get right
Alright I'm not even high
Lets smoke another bowl
I'm ready to **** it up all night
Smoke out the western hemisphere
I'm a stoner
Staying ****** in ******* Mexico
So roll you a blunt
Pack a bowl
**** up the night
Get ******* ******
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
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
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
Guys with long hair have agendas. And if they don't, they're stoners and 'agenda' a really long word, man.
Guys with long hair are the poetic types with acoustic guitars and incense in their dorm room and they hold their hair back with a pen behind their ear and they use it to write in a leather-bound journal about girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** so they can pick up more girls who smoke too much and have soft *****
Guys with long hair are the metalheads who sit in the back of class and use their hair to distract from the fact that they're wearing poor-quality ironic headphones that project Alice in Chains to everyone within a four-desk radius but no one's going to say anything because hey, that guy's a creep.
Guys with long hair are the classical types that play expensive instruments and have beautiful eyes that you can't see very often and have to keep ponytail elastics on their wrists, their wrists that never stop moving, conducting, tapping, curling, because Chopin slows for no man, no matter how long his locks.
And if you poured all these guys with long hair in a test tube and melted them until the agendas broke and forged and changed colors, you'd have him.
I found him in a smoky sweet basement in a house where everyone belongs but no one should actually live. I braided his shoulder-brushing hair without asking and saw his smile like a chunk of snow the size of your high school falling off a mountain, fast and white, huge and more important than anything else around.
I found him again in a different basement where only musicians belong. He invited me into the closet with the piano and it's like he asked me to crawl inside his head and hang out for a while. He casually mentioned his favorite angry bands while his fingers brushed keys in an order they seemed to know on their own, tendons and strings.
He says things that deserve to be handwritten in leather-bound journals. He holds your wrist with one hand when you shake the other because people have become desensitized to handshakes and don't feel the human contact of it anymore. He hugs to the right because you're supposed to hug heart-to-heart.
"People are going to judge based on what they see anyway. Might as well make sure they're right, sort of."
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Stoners live
stoners die
but in the end
we all get high
one love is true love ~420
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Memorized by a vacant lot. At the edge of an abyss. Darkness is solitude. Solitude for a crowded my mind. There is no break for a mind. Constantly crunching away at what is reality. The concept of nothingness makes the mind clock overtime. Are we creatures of logical limitless. Or finite beings who cant grasp that nothing is infinite. We are here to observe. To learn. To yearn. In search of a purpose. In search of anything that keeps us from thinking we are worthless. We are creators. We are makers. We are breakers. We are fakers. We are individuals. We are imitators. I am you and you are me. One in the same. On an even plane.. on a round earth. We are haters. We are lovers. We are creatures of similarity. We are creatures of contrast. Idiosyncratic nuances that make us a so far apart but so alike. The performer with a mic. The crazy man on a soap box. The angry in jail. The stoners in a hotbox. The gated community members. And the thieves breaking pad locks. The rich and the poor. The nun and the ***** The killer and the doctor. The lover and the boxer. All so far apart yet always united with a common theme. One in the same. He is her and she is him. Cell by cell. Limb by limb. United until every atom that we were connected through is torn away into nothingness. Vacant lots at the edge of an abyss.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
party rocking anthem in a partyless house:
they told us, indie is for the stoners
but all I'm smoking is words and
starry nights
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Colorado stoners firing it up
Lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky luck
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
When I was younger,
I was a shaman
chanting melodies
that I hoped
would change the world.
Perhaps, they did
for my people;
the schizophrenic
gypsy stoners earth mother
worshiping airy words
burning the creative
liquid juices squirting
over our brains
like a drop of LSD on a sugar cube.
But now,
I can feel the age
in my emotions.
Time drags me
through, smoldering campfire
ashes smoking to the heavens...
where the stars
look like they're rotting away
inside the mouth of space.
Even shadows are afraid
to hide in these dark corners.
These places in space
are so cool
chilly
hip.
Some kind of
sarcastic
one-liner
witticism
of ironic truth
temperature.
And I wish
to go back there.
But I must
return back
to earth to learn
what I cannot escape.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
I've seen hobos and hippies at bus stops
Goths, drunks and stoners
Pretty skinny girls with Starbucks in their pretty hands and leggings
Quiet girls with notebooks
Guys who are loud and always smiling
Guys who keep to themselves
People wearing a moustache and a skirt
Mothers with 6 children and a pet bird perched on their stroller
I always wonder of them
I have seen you
With your nice eyes
And silence
The quiet way you don't speak
How you always wear long sleeves
And I wonder about you
...Does anybody ever wonder about me?
I doubt it.
You have to be interesting, to be wondered about.
Or in a movie.
Or a book.
Or a fairytale.
You need to live in daydreams.
I think I need to move.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
“High school is the best years of your life”
Well if that’s the case then hand me a knife
If this is as good as it gets then I’m *******
I’m just being honest; I don’t mean to be rude
But I dream of a day without teachers or books
Or jocks and cheerleaders and their **** good looks
I’m done with the stoners, the losers, and geeks
Thank God this whole thing will end in a few short weeks.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
tweakers tweakers everywhere. there's barely room to stand.
little knots of junkies nod. i think they're with the band.
ravers... rolling. round and round. chewing fruity gum.
cokeheads chatting. chatting chatty chats. i feign i'm deaf and dumb.
stoners take it all by calm. in need of nothing save visine.
drinkers drink. until they puke. get sad or just plain mean.
pill poppers pop to **** the pain. or relieve life's daily stress.
remember!
you can always do a little more but not a little less.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
o, rèmy martin dreamer,
with cheap hen on your breath.
the good brown is not the backwoods
or juul pods in virgina tobacco,
&
maybe the good brown manifests in my hair,
before the ammonia, touching my scalp
and turning it as red as my tongue after
a strawberry lollipop. everything
tastes like you.
&
i wish i could touch you again,
just hold your hand, brush your
elbow, play with your hair.
but i also wish i could drive a thousand
machetes into your flesh, while screaming
&
writhing with trash-sickened fervor .
you are vomit-inducing. you smell
like a thousand patchouli-burning
stoners, but you feel like velvet
and taste like sugar-sweat.
you might be popping a xan right now,
knee-deep in beautiful girls.
and i'm still dope-sick.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
A small single apartment
That is all I really need.
The result of low ambition
And a paucity of greed.
A kitchen for cooking
A comfy place to sleep
Just great for meditation for
Thoughts that don’t go deep.
It was close to my buddies
That good old gang of mine
I go there, they come here,
As long as there was wine.
I was serving jug wine
And vintage it was not.
I had to switch to *** when
My stomach started to rot.
I also served cheap beer,
The cheapest I could find.
Between the wine and beer
It’s lucky today I’m not blind.
And food was also frugal
Mostly chips and salsa hot.
Stoners aren’t that choosy.
Gourmands we were not.
Of course we all had our own
Personal marijuana stash.
Its quality depended on
The amount of available cash.
But one of us was a dealer
Or sometimes there were two.
They always brought a supply
To sell, that’s what they do.
We laughed and roared and
Someone always had a guitar
It is nineteen seventy two
And that’s how conditions are.
Some of us had jobs back then
But most were floating around.
It’s hard to be a stable soul
With no feet on the ground.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Sugar ***** the ribbon but feel free to wear the bow.
Hey who turned off the lights.
It's much more fun to get in touch with your feelings in the dark if ya didnt know.
Forget the missletoe lets ***** under the tree.
Why it's a holiday **** in times square.
Yeah thats feels awsome but im not sure if that was you or me.
Im in the spirt pass the Jack and let's play hide the yule log
every Santa loves a ** ** **
Let's make the naughty list for a couple of years in one night.
Sugar yes Santas happy to see ya if ya didnt know.
Ring goes the bell, no dude im getting laid so I could care less what ya got.
ten grams for the ****** and for my stoners one pound of ***
It's the time for giving sugar and ya no they say it's better to give than recive.
No wonder Santa's so dam happy if only ever day was Christmas Eve.
No need to hang that stocking cause something else is gonna get stuffed tonight.
Why miss Santa in that dress the elves can almost see your Reindeer.
yes kids i know im not right.
Its a party for two no shirt or shoes required
Deck the halls hey why not invite your sister holly.
It's playtime at the north pole hell no wonder this ***** elf is so Jolly.
On ya little hampsters we must go.
Hey its more than just snow that does blow.
Yes holidays are hell well for most sure spike the punch
i'll pass on the cookie.
Forget the gifts cause all i want is some holiday nookie.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
We popped ourselves up to the ideas of pop culture
and adopted the looks of orphans
spray paint and swear words
too loud overcrowded mischief
the misgivings of being too young
children throwing tantrums over ice cream
calendars fell and the montage ended
we were flung across the globe as dandelion seeds
weeds to be weeded
I was playing tight rope on the fence
and fell on the side with no safety net
skinned knees and black eyes
the stoners the dropouts the thugs and **** ups
***** and *******
******* and ********
these were just words
deactivated model replicas pointed at the head
college student with a chip on the shoulder
and the one they called the jester
and the one they called the king
with return addresses tattooed on arms
the awake became the living dream
no time for nights of nightmares
enough scare to go around
pack another GB and cry some more
my blood is ink dripping from the pen
yours drips from thighs and forearms
you want to be the new thing
you forgot what the original means
and burned all of your dictionaries a while ago
check my *** cheek
the origin is there
UK/USA
now all the lights are off
and the moon hangs fat, sacrificial in the sky
do you want the moon? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the moon.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC