I love her more than weed
Surely, I know, I love her more than weed.

See, indeed her seed is all I need to breathe sobriety.
Looked down upon by society, because she puffed on dutchmasters and I and I smoked on swishers, true stoners get the picture.

Like me, her smoking habits have not become stagnant.
We synced once and became solid addicts.

Getting high on our own supply.
Because by the time I passed up infatuation and lust, I got the craziest rush from her angel dust.

And when she dragged, the smoke she exhaled was filled with freedom chants and vegan rants and sweet romance.

There's some obsession from this session, revealing real feelings, and when hate creates earthquakes we are both baked with firm ceilings.

I've been strung upon threads on her nearly non-existent hair, where my finger prints stain memories, where they run and run through.

My digits get livid off of only one visit, to a feeling so exquisite that my hands start to shake as I lit it then hit it. And thus I must ask, why should I quit it? She was put on this earth for me, so as I may be Adam she must be Eve rolling my trees.

And do not we resemble one another's ribs?
Strong, protection providing, invading lungs that stretch as they inhale her affections.

Bloodcells begin progression, carrying her name to every section and chamber of my heart that thought she was a stranger. I never came here to save her, and I know of those that have tasted her flavor, but I'm confused how do you abuse a substance that relieves anger?

I mean when I lose focus I get toasted, roasted and love lucid, but sometimes smoking arrows with Cupid, makes the sober see you as stupid, but I never turned dunce from these blunts.

Instead cells in my head where ideas are kept captive, where released from their cage and on a page became active.

They pillaged with pencils pumping paper with lead, raiding regions with rhyme until rhythm was dead. And with my conscious filled convicts sometimes nonsense slips into my speech, So I blow O's from dro stogies with no clothes just to keep the peace.

Shout out to those that agree, and manage to see the happiness in my habit. There's growth in my smoke cause what I toke isn't average.

She allows me to fly without planes. Soaring through skyscrapers like Peter Parker and my dearests name is Mary Jane. And in her brain i'm a hero, freeing her from a web of lies designed by bad guys dressed as honest lovers in disguise, I stare at her with red eyes, the homicide victims of a bloods' shot, with guns he got from my lungs, leaving my iris stained with cherry pop.

I feel so vehemently about her just being with me, My nose is wide open soaking all of her into me.

That's why we smoke so intimately, and my memory isn't empty, despite the rumors i have no tumor, I remember each time vividly.

And if you ever see me cough, it's because she leaves me breathless, if I seem asleep as I walk it's cause she leaves me restless, she can be my ball a chain, I'll will willingly be arrested, just to be by her side, high, and protected.

So when the lights on the stage fade, and all the loose ends are sewed up, I'll be at home with a big bag of her in my sheets rolled up. This is no hallucination more like awareness in a dream, so on this queer vacation I'm more than happy to be her keif.