Editor’s Note: This poem was first published January 9th, 2015. But what good is being the editor if you can’t suggest people reread your rhymes?
Sometimes I sit in reverie,
and think ‘bout things
to do and see
and buy and try and master soon —
while smoking; staring at the moon.
And sometimes when my joint goes out
I don’t relight,
I sit in doubt.
I wonder at a world that thinks
that pot is so much worse than drinks.
But best of all? Those times I blaze
when with my friends,
and in the haze
our laughter overwhelms my fears
of what might happen through the years.
We don’t avoid reality,
those smoking pot
and leaving be.
We make a glass for looking through
because that’s all we’ve left to do.
Soci’ty needs a bit of green —
a fairy tale —
before we’re mean
in culture, aptitude, and deed.
To manage, let us smoke our weed.