A poem I wrote...
A dreamstate wavers nonstop,
and the shadows falls like mountains,
beneath we are all missing,
lost in tombs,
misbegotten,
like rain sought by dry earthen pile,
like love yearned by a child,
like ancient mounds revered by lore,
mystic toys of some mystic store.
A dread lingers, like a vine
that wraps around a heart...
and tugs
and I see red.
Long soft fingers caress my spine,
flutter about my soul like silken sheets...
upon a bed.
But the dreams ends, and I begin to think..
That I'm now dead...inside.
When I saw this, I was all geared up to start toolin on ya, but it actually has a pretty good rhythym, and fairly good use of repetition and imagery.
Fag.
If I could posibly wish for one thing -
What would it be? world peace? Absolute knowledge? A multitude of women for all facets of pleasure? The latter stirs more thought to tell you the truth. What would you do with absolute knowledge? So I find out we are all insignificant pebbles rolling dow the hill of life. That we are turds on the curb of existence? The only thing to know is the reality of things. Perceptions, that muddlement you define as your reality is not which I speak. I speak of a true reality. Quite frankly, a rock could absolute knowledge. A bean can. Perhaps a spoon or a conch shell. Ahh, you say...but can they think??? Can you prove they don't? Can you even prove to me that you think? Prove to me you have a mind. You can't. A mind is a man-made term to describe a thought process based on our muddled perceptions. It is insubstantial. Has no form. Perhaps a rock thinks we have no life. No process. No function. For it has no discernable proof that we are thinking. We only run in circles as it sits in perfect Zen.
This rock knows all...it does not move, scream, cry, or even masturbate. It does not have a brain, nor eyes, thoroughly confusing it. It has no self-delusion of having a "mind". It does not have a lava lamp or a fridge full of Molson. It has only the basics of reality: Form, function and density.
World peace? The rock has no need for world peace. Peace, war, or total annihilation does not phase it. It will only change in size, weight, or become dust. It has no realization it will die. It has no brain. No conciousness. No crazed bent on survival or destruction.
And, world peace for we, the delusional masses? World peace has already been in the making. You see the news and doubt it? Well, just using that blurry occular lens, I'd probably doubt it as well. Look closely. Look at the Earth itself. The Great Mother, in hich all her religon's cradle, is already doing all the work.
You see, the great Mother has a body lice problem. Upon her body they have been allowed to fester uncontrolled. Little parasitic masses bent of cars, cash and sex - all feeding in a malicious selfish frenzy. Propagating at a fantastic rate, hoarding her bounty, these parasites have the Great Mother reeling.
Oh Great Mother, forgive our blaring 50cent rappers, our fuming Tractor pulls and our many bologne wrappers. For we have little brains and basic needs. we are helpless in perceiving the full-scope of cosmic truths...besides the psychic tingles of the Psychic Hotline.
Oh great mother, we do you no honor. we pray only to stories and mirrors of our fears. We just do not know how to give proper respect...
but the Great Mother has a great scrubber in which to scratch with. Her living, breathing planet already begins the steps to world peace. With that giant scrubber and an industrial-sized bottle of Dr. Scholl's Jock Itch Batter, she begins to go to work. Ozone-layer begins to dissipate, desert-land expands at a rapid rate, an the water-table begins to rise.
Slowly but surely, it begins. Mother Nature begins to right itself. She naturally compensates for the multitude of hurts and wounds we have produced. And, as she scrubs, those hot zones cool to her solution.
We are just a part of her process. We sit on lily pads in the great swamp of the universe...and have no place to go. No sane frog would ruin it's lily pad with no place to jump to. Especially if that frog couldn't swim. Or think?
OK, someone has a little too much time on their hands.
I don't know what you smoked over the weekend, but if I were you, I'd demand my money back. That shit was seriously tainted
cretin.
it was good stuff. :kiss:
Did my weed inspire such creativity?
Quote:Originally posted by Suzie
Did my weed inspire such creativity?
yup. that stuff is still going, and has made the rounds. :lol:
I'm sorry...did somebody mention weed?
Ode to Weed
by 420
Written spontaneously for this thread. Enjoy.
Weed, how I love thee.
If you were a woman, I would make love to you constantly.
Oh kindest herb of them all, you bring a warm fuzzy feeling to my balls
As I remember the times I'd smoke and then run down my college dorm room halls...
Mary Jane eased my pain when I went to an outdoor concert once and it rained.
Once or twice, I've smoked some schwag, man, what a drag, as it only gave me some head pain
One day I smoked an herb so green, one that gave a buzz to me that was so clean
But the cops one day took that dealer away and man, that sure was mean.
But I moved on, remaining real strong
as I found new ways to catch my blaze and smoke and puff myself into a daze...
Wait a second, what was this poem about again?
Oh, yeah - Marijuana, I love you.
-420