Eh, another poem for Ms. Moore's class. Our topic was drugs xD
Poems are kind of.
Shortened lines.
Made from sentences.
That may sometimes rhyme.
So here it goes.
This is what i've got.
Weed, marijuana.
The stuff puts you on the spot.
Dazed looks.
And red, slanted eyes.
Are some effects.
Of getting high.
You say: "Hey, i'm fine."
Right after you're done.
But let's count your brain cells.
I bet you got none.
Majority of teenagers did it.
So let's follow in their steps.
Keep some for later, though.
In your little treasure chest.
Being high is kind of like.
Writing a poem.
Sometimes you don't know what you're saying.
It might not even make sense.
You can hide a poem.
Just like you stash your weed.
Fix it; smoke it.
When everybody leaves.
Here, quick, pass the joint.
Even if she does make a point.
Because drugs are the better way out.
The other way is death.
You're choosing the lesser of two evils here.
But you're still choosing evil.
