Ifidstgaymddie

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.