Second joint, so it’s time to write a poem.
I have some routines, if you’ll keep quiet, I’ll show them.
See, the first joint is to clear my mind.
It’s for me to stop searching for all the things I can’t find.
It’s the moment where my body and my mind divide,
And the moment where my mind and my soul collide.
When I smoke my first joint, I write about how I feel,
I have no control, before my pen, I humbly kneel,
And it just writes down everything my subconsciousness can’t conceal.
It writes without thinking, so everything is real.
From the moment I begin to write,
A certain urge starts to arise,
I fantasize about the heights,
I hope to achieve some time.
This is when I start to write logically,
I shake all the feeling off of me,
I make music with the words, a melody,
I start to write more aggressively.
I start to write in ways that can make me money.
I start to write from a whole other side of me.
Our society is not difficult to understand,
Women are being downgraded because the world is ruled by men,
People of color still can’t be free in the way that white people can,
There’s money for everything, except for the starving people, dying on the same land.
Everybody’s lost, looking for someone to show them the way.
So they’re on social media admiring others all day.
Every now and then someone stand up and says,
I can show you how, if I may?
So they write a book about losing weight.
Another one writes about trusting faith.
Every single one of these books is fake.
It hurts my eyes, these people are not writers.
They portray themselves as winners of life, as true fighters.
The masses follow them like it’s dark and they have the only lighters.
I sit here contemplating if maybe I should too, write it.
I want to write stories people can lose themselves in.
Stories about love, sex, adventure, sin.
I want them to be able to escape the world they’re living in.
Like I do, every time I start reading.
I smoke half of the joint, then I put it out.
If I don’t, my concentration will go south.
You gotta understand what I’m writing about.
Put on a slow jam and smoke some loud.
Read my poems from your cloud.
You’ll lose yourself in my routines, no doubt.