A friend of mine was a cancer patient
and nearly kissed death.
I ask her about her journey,
and her scars.
And she smiles willingly to share,
She doesn’t drink
And never will.
But I do.
I bought my first pack on Saturday,
smoked five and woke up still drink
on spiked juice the next morning.
In a daze, I performed my routine.
Guilt washed over me,
Regret walked me down the street
And I told myself never again.
But here I sit, a day before Friday
Hoping to do it again.
Regretting giving away my pack
of sacred sticks
to a vagabond on the street.
Thinking of all the yellow butts
I could drop on the ground and
How many bottles I could empty.
Am I insane? Or am I a mystic?
Hoping to experience the divine for myself.
Waiting for a Hamitic Stream of Thought
That will rip me from this 3rd dimension.
Some intervention that will show me
the throne in which,
my God sits.
There’s a syncrenicity somewhere here,
Yet I cannot find the puzzle piece
To solve it all.
Which is why I listen with big ears
To my friend’s story,
But indulge in a drunken stupor,
Hoping that something inside