im not really working because im broke i wake up overcome by thorns in my side i wear cold amethyst and surrender to the fact that you're always working we could have risen on beds of cedar like lecherous mycelium and roots embracing instead you feed the meter that keeps you in the race you pour concrete fast, a rapidly aged spirit slave drive ninety if you make it that far risking it all for another's bullshit existence wasting the earth for the sake of some fucking satanic texan and get paid in insults instead of my love given from within a formless grace instead of your cube that your constantly typing numbers inside of, against all common sense of decency for the old growth id rather clear cut the hearts of greedy men than lose dreams of entranced birds painting themselves anew the same paint the amethyst makes us too owls blinking and mice that flew drove me alike to you caught in your trap you wake without me on cold mornings and i hunt without a goal amy you lost me at hello instead of a long goodbye ahead of the game, i knew it didnt matter im only going about eleven
'Tis good. One suggestion, though-the line with "some fucking satanic texan" kind of offsets the rhythm for me. You might try wording that different. But otherwise, I loves it.
I find nothing wrong with it, in fact I dig it. F'ing satanic texan, nothing wrong with that, couldnt have put it better meself. I like where you said youd rather cut down the hopes, aspirations, dreams of the greedy Fcks than see one ounce of nature hurt. Keep on keeping on, Crowfeather
the fog crept into humboldt county enshrouding all the ganja hiding it from the prying eyes flying over and we rejoice we toil endlessly, picking, trimming, packing smelling, smoking, wandering lost in our minds for what? for three thousand dollars a pound? for financial security? for the love and admiration of young stoners? it is futile growing this plant or any other the world will end in milliseconds i give up on your love the taste that sold me was better than the meal
