Sometimes you write poetry while you’re fucked up–and sometimes it’s amazing, just because, y’know, you’ve got the goods. For those of you who don’t care for poetry, this post isn’t for you. Or it will be. Go drink more, then get back to me. This shit is real when you’re effed.



Above me lay the night sky,

The clouds with splendor deep,
The whirlwinds of the breeze,
The shadow’s chilling creep.

I watched the pavement pass,
Under each softly falling shoe,
The blurs becoming solid,
Of a sedimentary hue.

The branches bare of growing,
Our minds like smoke clogged flasks,
But on this nighttime feeling,
Exists no will to ask.

The pavement rose to meet me,
Yet I fell just as fast,
And suddenly I could but stare,
Into distant morning’s past.

The world unearthed, and tilted,
My vision slanted in,
A drug induced euphoria,
To remind me of my sin.

And somehow in this emptiness,
This vacancy of thought,
My mind is still but stirred,
To bring forth the sadness wrought.

Hollowness inside these bones, 
Leaks forth like a sieve,
Dripping out from vacant eyes,
On such a way to live-


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