Be ready, be ready, be ready to be confused..."
Better than anything you could smoke, pass or pop.
The effects seem to be a cross between acid, X, ice, hash, and rock.
Nice, fast, and hot. The best of any drug or habit.
And when you stop...Na, shit, you just gotta have it.
Fiendin'...last resort, street corners, tryin to grab it.
But when you ask they just laugh at it, try to sell you somethin else.
But you hooked man, that other shit just seem bad for ya health.
Every wakin' moment feels like you havin withdrawls.
And when you get dosed, fuck the other addicts, laugh at em all.
Cus they stuck in that other reality, while you lost in ya own.
Ya mind finds infinite capacity, never even leavin ya home.
And when you not high on that shit, need a blunt to clear ya mind.
Cus tha flashbacks won't quit, trapped here in the constraints of time.
It's only noon, but you need it, fiendin for anything but that weed shit.
The need for hallucination, worse than free basin', makin ya seed split.
So you lie down and close ya eyes, soar sky high.
It's just beginin', and in the next instant, you die.
God why? Why? Why is not over?
Lookin over ya shoulder at the afterlife, and Hell, frozen over.
But you know to move on and never question the effects of the drug.
Like when you fall for a bitch, you ever question the effects of ya love?
Naa...just Let It Be, the song playin in ya head.
Bulletproof and invisible, right there, layin in ya bed.
Voices, sayin you dead, you might be, you might not.
Can't ever tell when you high on the drug that ya mind got.
Imagination runnin off track, a little too wild.
Bring yaself down and get stoned, at least for a little while.
Contemplate all that shit you saw while delerious.
Serious thoughts, unable to wrap ya mind round the experience.
Simply indescribable, so why try?
Why lie, and say that any part of the high is viable.
Complete lack of control. Shit, nothing is what is seems.
The perfect trip. The perfect high. The perfect drug is dreams.
I would so much rather be blessing the world with beautiful verses.
But instead, I'm reduced to scribbling these angry vocalizations.
Screaming my frustrations at inanimate objects.
Like they could understand even if they had a soul.
Like they could relate to my drug-ridden mind.
The funny thing is, they seem to relate better than you do.
Even on my happiest days you seem to find a way to fuck with me.
You find something to blame on me that could not possibly be my fault.
Like your inadaquacies and unhappinesses weren't around before I was.
Or are you upset with me because my exsistance makes them glaringly obvious to you?
Fuck it, it's easier to talk to this piece of paper than you.
So I sit here, constructing a poem out of ink and tears.
Writings you'll never read.
Not for fear, but for a lack of understanding and connection.
Damn that was depressing. Why do you make me write this shit?
I Define in order to Equalize
Measuring Opportunity
I seal the Store of Death
With the Self-Existing tone of Form
I am guided by the power of Spirit