In fact, I don't smoke the grass. And you must don’t do it either.(But i in fact hit my head.)⁠⁠

I smoked as much grass as Snoop Dog did not smoke.

I killed my conscience. I pecked her eyes like a hawk.

I took out a shotgun, painted in pink,

With stickers with animegirls. My brain is sick.

I do not know why I am writing this.

But I feel strange bliss.

My trip begins. I see a huge loving robot.

I melt from his gaze, he is so hot.

Hey, do you want to try and find the point?

Smoke the same grass as me and become a holy.

You are looking for meaning here, huh?

But there is nothing here, you fucked up.

I just wrote it because I wanted to.

Only self-accusation in poems. Mood

Is fuck up, it busted, it is crazy.

I take my pink shotgun and go to past to kill the nazies.

Why am I like that?

Once I hit my head.

Now I don't care, I don't even need to smoke grass.

It now seems to me that I have no chance

To improve. Something stuck to me and does not let go.

I stay with my crazy thoughts, I'm somewhere in the clouds.

I serve myself insanity in a bowl.

When I'm in the headphones, I hear strange sounds.

My roof is going. I don’t know what to do with it.

I'm head over heels in shit.