You grow in the quiet regions of philosophy,
study magnificent geography, analyze psychology.
In the midst of your manhood is a diabolical trip,
filled with starry nights, gloomy lights and joint hits.
The night will space up on you, to get a clue,
but the reason you're glued is because of the truth.
It clobbers you sideways, you slam through the highways,
the cars slide away, to avoid hitting you anyway,
you burn through the ditches into the wild forest.
Feels like a chorus, and you parade through like a florist.
And like a tourist, you glimpse then you're gone.
No longer sliding, you're wasted, cleaned out the bong.
Laying in bed, alone, maybe dead,
Are you moving? Feel your head, if it's mushy like bread,
then you've got something to dread.
But there's not a tread, of anything on that highway of which you sled.
It was all a dream, keep telling yourself that,
then maybe the horror won't come back.
Your bed becomes a large ball of red,
and instead of jumping out you lay flat,
hoping it'll go away just like that.
Your flesh begins to bubble, this could be trouble,
for every second you lay the pain shall double.
Moments later your sky has become rubble.
Everything in your head feels like radiology,
buzzes and beeps, the form of it creeps,
and you fade back into your region of philosophy.