Sunday, November 27, 2011

A stoner life

He is a lunatic with a rhetoric interior,
Spending life driving pleasure out of drugs and drinks,
He never shaves, doesn't give a thought to his career,
A hedonist grows, while a slave shrinks.

An apartment or a cave,
They look pretty much all the same,
Shelter, cloth and food, his needs are crude,
A putrefying body, a purifying soul.

Longing for love, friends, teachers and loneliness,
He is happily lost on a road through a dark tunnel,
Madness, they called it,
It is simply a will to be weird.

He behaves normally,
As a calm straight hippy,
No desire, no yearning for a pot of gold,
Just a hunger unsatisfied, and dizzy highs to explore.

A shabby exterior he looks upon, gazing into a mirror,
lost, aimless and desperate it glares,
Wondering with amazement at his own earthy form and reflection,
reminiscing sacrifices, as he pushed those boundaries of reality.

Resurrect and polish, they crooned,
Get a hold, join this raging, mad herd,
spend life on collecting furniture, car and money,
carry them to a worthless grave, they chaffed.

To him, life is blissful, yet cruel,
he finds soft death more comforting,
Yearns for peace, and a clear, untroubled, unburdened, unprejudiced mind,
wishing he could show others, what he had just heard.

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