Blue-Gray Haze (Thirty-One Year Old Troubled Male Tribe Person) 2019

Zigging in and out, round about to shout at the unfair swears I bare. No reason to season such an ugly characteristic to the psychics who are fakes for God’s sakes. Take me to a place where I face the lovely, comely visions of the female persuasion. Taking in the visual comfort without Southern Comfort to haze the maze. Search my mind to find the very kind visions without omissions. Transmissions of a port into my soul which will never depart the picture through the aperture, cure all the ails so I won’t believe it to fail. Sail across the crystal blue water as I saunter and wander. Pander never an option as I walk without the talk of the blowhards sending shards of shrapnel toward society. Lie upon the sun while I tan and stand stoic in this sick existence full of the askew issues visually cosigned biblically by the right's groupies. Tissues full of snot as our souls rot. Check the pot of beans to the scenes of a family tardy to the party of bonding, sounding strange but never deranged as the time counts down in the underground. Pound of green never obscene to be viewed, seen in its compressed state. Fate coming around in this late fornicating state, formulating high always nigh. Sigh for another going under in this thunder. Give me another toke, to smoke. Take me to the hereafter, never to waiver the blue-gray haze to a purple haze. I like the color of blue-gray, it suits me...and you.