I lay my head down by the fire,
and wait for the burning hair to make me higher,
I'm out of weed,
and I need a high,
I planted a seed,
but then it died,
And then it was clear to me,
that so did I,
(I'm not alive.)
Here I lay, dead and done,
with no more air filling my lungs,
Rotting alone, not to be found,
though they searched for days,
and whether my soul go up or down,
My body will decay,
So with no vessel to keep my soul bound,
on earth I cannot stay,
I'm truly free, but it's not so great,
this place is filled with friendly hate,
living in the thoughts of all my friends,
Drifting and floating until it ends.
(( I wrote that when I thought of one of my friends, though the poem ended up not being about him at all! >.> Also, I'm not a smoker, just to be sure. x3 ))
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This is probably a poem.
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