The Stoner

There be a stoner, a mighty old one, wrinkled skin, twisted toes, frail and fragile, as if a tiny little nudge can dismantle his assembled soul. He’s not a person, not at least now, may be once, but long forgotten. Now he is a shadow of a soul. He is fragmented so is his mind. He would talk you through rubbish and say nothing, but then when you least expect it he says the thing. Spec...

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The flower grew within, the fumes were fornicated. Bastards grew on paper, spilt ink spread their legs to the core of chaos. Thus the evil brewed bombs. You don’t see a shadow in the dark docile day. Only when it burns you can see your damned skin and the fire. The shadow of a truth turning grey, sat beside by the yellow day!

PC: Unknown

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It's moist, in either of the sides
Some surpass the water and some would happily drown.
as for me, I prefer to drink up.

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You stare. 
Thinking isn’t your game, anymore.
Wait for the next reflex to barge in.

Stare.

PC: unknown.

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Blended is thy blue and sly be the cue
one flew over two,
resting in peace a few,
me and me and me and me and you.

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Piercing poles of what shattered in abruptness
Has a bit of touch to it.
Strange things with glasses, I tell you.

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