The vagabond’s in a wooded frame of mind.
In a planted shack designed to flow behind – a psychedelic thought.
“Who cares if my poems rhyme or not? Who cares?”
Kneeling down to the monster, in a quiet pathetic way,
blinding psychedelics, and a long light gray… mushroom.
“Who cares if I eat this ‘shroom or not? Who cares?”
Thoughts of leaving bring about anxiety… and doom.
Kneeling down to the ‘shroom; its long stalky magic,
excited for the trip outside the shack – a psychedelic racetrack.
“All I care about is the talking purple orb inside my backpack.
Who cares about their nasty negative feedback?”