Truthfully I just want to have sex, smoke weed and write poetry all day.
With one hand to a pen
And the other cupped on a breast
I'd be intoxicated with clouded misconceptions resting on my chest.
I could feel what's real with every stroke of my pen.
A lady's legs tangled around my brown body.
Words wrapped around my head.
Smoke trapped in my lungs.
Beautiful hands rubbing my neck.
I would die happy.
If I was able to express this to others.
But like most,
People are consumed with funny green paper.
And forming ulcers in there guts.
Stressing over student loans
And things that remain out of their control.
While here I am,
Writing out my hearts desires.
Dreaming about the pure and simple things in life.
Like sex after breakfast
And reading books in bed.