The kids these days are smoking nutmeg.
Can you believe it?
The things we won't do for a high.
Chasing dream clouds is a nice enough pastime, until the taste of all the smoke goes stale.
When burnt lungs want oxygen, they'll find it in a dying black balloon. It's personal but, I found mine in love.
The things we won't do for our fix.
I write my fix letters with a quill.
If you come back you'll be wonderful. If you come back I'll be beautiful. If you come back I'll let you lie to me again.
I'm not proud of this.
I've noticed, if you take your brag book photographs of all those seedy nights you thought you were happy, and you wave them hard enough, the wind will start a dust storm.
I see faded Polaroids of destruction where others see a Kodak moment. Then they point out the quill in my hand. The plank in my eye.
I guess I'm getting older.
I only use nutmeg in my lattes,
and even then, it's only a pinch.
