Under a tree, I do dwell,
contemplating life as hell.
I use greens as remedy,
a way of escaping life for me.
Vaguely I try, as I get high,
to remember a life of sobriety.
Music's lyrics echo in my head;
words of pain, and loss, and dread.
But for people like me,
it's hard to see,
the point of leaving bed.
Where in dreams
it hardly seems
complicated with impossibilities.
Unconscious, time has no course.
No schedules, meetings, laws, remorse.
I've tried ecstasy, pills and powders,
to overcome the dwelling hours.
Minutes, months, days, and years,
that seem to be lacking any cheer.
At school they giggle, flirt, destroy,
and I sit apart and wonder why
and how they could let those hurtful words fly.
It's not their fault, it's ignorance,
as many lead a life of bliss.
Money, family, "beauty," no pain.
And all the while I try to stay sane.
I feel like an outcast, although I have friends,
like an old soul, trying to make amends.
Among a crowd of an insubstantial sort,
and so I surround myself in a protective fort.
Where no one sees, and no one hears,
then no one cares, and no one fears.
So as I sit and toke a bowl,
I think about my cup,
which is far less than half-full.