(P.S.: Terra and Skyler are my roommate and her b/f at the time)
Pink Fluffy Clouds and Trash (another me and Terra poem!)
Pink fluffy clouds, elephants dance among them
Neon green dew on my shoe
Funny dancing toes are graceful
So pick my nose and call me distasteful
Zebra feet, snakey cords on a mountain top in Ireland
It's 6:49 in the P.M. hours, so many choices, ecstasy or may flowers
Jesse's on the turf now, walking with the cat, meow!
This is THE END, the end, the end, my FRIEND!
THE END
First Ever Stoned Poem
Being high is the thing to do,
I need a new shoe or two.
That would be fun
Fun, fun, fun in the sun!
Menstruation and cum sauce are dirty,
Dirty like a perty turdy.
Yo mama was your biznatch.
I wish my name was Jack Flash,
Flash, flash, while smoking hash!
Hash is your friend,
Hash is my friend,
But it all comes back in the end, end, END
End of life, end of it all
All because of a shopping mall!
Skyler needs to give me a shroom.
Now he's freaking out in my room!
THE END
Second Ever Stoned Poem (how original, I know)
Terra and Skyler are making out,
Maybe fantasizing about sauerkraut.
This pen is so fluid.
That's it.
THE END
Final Stoned Poem (for now)
Mountains are high,
High like my mind.
My mind is on drugs
Drugs are my friend.
Friends are what they are,
Are they high or are they low?
Low monitors my every cold breath
Your breath controls my soul,
My soul focused on a Heaven and Hell,
Hell is where we all wind up.
Hell on earth, Hell on wheels
Wheels spin to the wrath of Satan
Satan is 666, a crazy number in our mind.
Our mind's eye which is brain washed
By a solar eclipse
Outside the window
Of life.
Is where we begin,
Maybe where we find our mind
Is our own ruin.
The ruin of the ages
Marries my failure and distrust
Of your many motivations
Blessed by a God,
Cursed by our own accord.
Life is it, the end of Us,
The Beginning of You and I.
THE END
The
A little boy.
THE END
My generation is full of hippies and wannabes,
Wanna be my lover?
My generation, we have friends who fuck and queer as folk.
Mine eyes are witnessing the miracle of smoke!
We smoke Camels, Marlboros, Menthol, pot, coke, shrooms just because we're bored.
Are we really bored, or just too high to notice?
My generation is numb to terrorism and patriotism.
Patriots are fighting for the country, and terrorists against...or are they the same?
Will my generation see the year 2043?
Monkeys and cookies collide as I chew chew chew!
Jessica's on some sort of acid trip and I'm too tired to tolerate it. I'm going to bed. Our generation's spent.
THE END
I like pot more than snot,
I like whiskey, 'cause it makes me frisky!
I like to dance around in my green pants and shoes,
I am a leprechaun!
I like to have sex because it gives me an orgasm,
Beer makes you pee, wine makes you whine, what makes you pregnant?
SQUIRT!!
Love is a feeling as in dove's feathers, floating over luke water coated with silky red mist soaking in your essence.
I'm going to eat my watch!
THE END
The Puke Diaries
(a Terra parody about me :-P)
My puke is pretty,
Pretty like a biddy,
Pretty, pretty, pretty
It's such a pity I'm so pretty!
THE END
Comparatively Speaking of Life in Prose
By Setheronio!!
As I once sat with an old man upon a stoop,
He said to me, "Seth, life's like taking a poop."
Life differs in many senses and there are tattered,
But think about it, life is like fickle matter.
You have some good, some bad, and some surprises,
Like everytime you pull down your pants and get to squatting!
Thank you. Setheronio :-)
THE END
Moths Gallore
(this was not a high poem, but it might as well have been...I wrote it after I saw moth die in my candle wax...*lol* It doesn't make much sense, but here you go!)
A little moth, swirling in light,
Not seeming to notice his plight.
He glides and twists and dances in a moment,
In some way embodying the ideal innocent
Appeal that we all seem to strive for.
I know not about the moth, but I want more.
More than a miniscule life surrounding light.
More than I will ever realize tonight.
As I lay me down to sleep,
The little moth seems to weep
At the realization of his importance,
And his loss of innocence
As he flails out of control,
In the fading flicker, without a soul.
A soul to store hopes and dreams,
A soul to store sadness and screams.
He'll never experience any of it.
He is, in life, a misfit,
A mis-made toy.
He seems so coy
Until his frail life flashes before his eyes,
Lost in the whisper, maybe the sighs
Of the impending flicker of hope
That surrounds us all.
THE END
