Heavy eyes drift and adopt a gaze , 
smoke filled room reeks purple haze , 
slowly seeking blue rizzla on the cluttered rolling tray ,

A rusty door hinge that’s withered away , 
Speckles of sharp rust scatter as each day goes affray , 
toke on  a fat 1 and close my eyes , 
Forget about the stabbing tormentor and enjoy getting high , 

Colossal cone in hand , smooth clouds of fog enrapture the room , 
guitars ring melodically and voices sing mellow , 
Chris Martin tells me everything’s yellow , 
sip tea two sugars , indulge in a snack , 
Thank  God there’s a luxury in life that sorts out my back , 

Lay rigid and motionless anticipating the click , 
Bend backwards , lean sideward’s I’ve learnt the trick , 
An ongoing conflict , body and mind , 
An inflame soul searches and tries to find , 
Still he searches for quality in life , reassurance and peace of mind. 


© Copyright Timothy James Roberts 10/11/2008