Sitting on the tan, gritty, apartment carpet;
Jimi Hendrix’s plays softly from the iPod
hooked up to ratty craigslist bought speakers.
Lighters scattered like mice throughout the
smoky space. Clicks of fire fill the room with
tiny fireworks of power enforced energy.
Expansion of your mind takes you to unknown
universes of toilet water swirling rainbow colors.
a simple creative outlet, but the smoke clears out,
billowing from the stacks of the bourgeois society.
The crystals of green disappear, the haze has been
lifted. My rebel phase has come and gone. Another
stiff in corporate America where 4:20 is replaced
by nine to five, nine to five, nine to five.
Will Miss Mary Jane ever poke her leafy, psychedelic,
earthy figure out again? Or are we trapped within
the box, a mime to society? Eyes of defeat, tension
building… suit and tie, suit and tie, suit and tie.
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