The people around me are potheads.
Outside,
Where harsh lines meet slanted ones,
Grass worn down by sneaker soles,
Cement blocks meant to indulge less-than-legal habits.
The smoke leaves their mouths,
Lips meet these clouds
Which should have been green.
The wind blows downward, saving me from the smell,
I watch the ash spiral, down, down, down.
Their eyes dilate.
The wind rips through me,
They become numb to the bleak surroundings,
And I cannot feel my hands;
Their finger tips are turning white.
Knees bent forwards in some twisted prayer,
The stamped-down grass hearing my sermon
As I wonder how I got to this cement block,
Watching others lose their minds while I keep mine.
Was it the promises made in my youth?
Knees scraped from climbing trees, head full of all the things I could do, not bogged down by limitations.
Was it the half-baked plans made years prior,
Where I felt I could only be my best in a small environment, only to be surrounded by those who did not care about my best?
Insecurity gripped me in a chokehold.
Loneliness was an old coat that I was desperate to donate.
I only ever had one plan, even as I bragged about the non-existent many,
So the crushed grass has become my temple
And those around me my burden,
I know with certainty I am learning lessons, but the lessons I needed were between me and my confession box.
The people around me are potheads,
Losing their minds to the sky,
And I am the dreamer,
Giving my hopes to the earth.
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