Bubba Kush and lemon haze
All these flavors I wanna blaze
Pass the grinder and my tray
Wake and bake to start the day
Sour diesel and blue dream
A hybrid makes a good team
These two strains are so harmonic
Now let’s sit and burn the chronic
Grandaddy purp and wedding cake
Puff puff pass for my own sake
Ride the high ‘cause I need a break
Munchies! Time for a chocolate shake
Maui Wowie and cotton candy kush
Spark that baby up and light that bush
It doesn’t even matter what strain
The green goddess hides the pain
Yes we love you Mary Jane
As you flow right through my veins
“But she’s not good for your brain”
Ignorant people are such a drain
Inhale, exhale, drop the ash
Even when the weed is trash
It doesn’t hurt to keep a stash
The only green as good as cash
They gather beneath flickering neon,
in narrow alleys where the pavement remembers rain,
where glasses clink like distant thunder
and the air smells of sweat, stale tobacco, and old promises.
A woman’s laughter, cracked and sharp,
spills into the room like broken shards;
a man leans on the bar—his elbow’d sorrow
ordering another round, trading hours for oblivion.
The jukebox—wounded, nostalgic—
grinds out a song of ghosts and faded dreams.
Bartender’s hands shake between bottles
as shadows press against the windows, watchers wanting in.
Walls scribbled with names never spoken—
with hearts shattered, hopes pawned.
Outside, the city coughs, writhes in sleepless neon;
inside, time stands still, drunk and defiant.
We are all believers here—
in the altar of amber liquor,
the hymn of poured whiskey,
in the communion of husbands and strangers.
Midnight cracks open like a broken mirror—
edges sharp, reflection distorted.
Beer calls; gin beckons;
the bouncer counts bodies, not sins.
And when the music fades,
when the lights cut low—
they linger, some to forget, others to feel everything
in the hollow between heartbeats.
Go-go gadget, withdrawals no more,
a toast to addicts—there’s treasure on the floor.
X marks the spot, scribbled in Crayola,
connect all the dots—ecstasy, the night is over.
From Rock ’em Sock ’em robots to rocks in socks, a show-off,
hungry hungry Zippos, the money swells my lymph nodes, a lovely something sent ghosts—
right outside your windows,
trust no one, innuendo,
the night piggybacks the sickos.
I feel far from home, yet remotely close to sin,
my coffin’s so inviting—volunteer, I jump right in.
Fundamental frequency, but I only hit the high note,
incidental contingencies, lies in every word that she spoke.
Intentional indecency—my clip could use a reload,
a spectacle illegally, items bought without a barcode.
I yearn for entertainment, chose the red pill, hide from agents,
time’s complacent, me and drugs—true love, it’s our engagement.
And if I ever said “drugs make me a better me,”
I’m sorry that I lied—every night,
I cry myself to sleep.
My legs feel poor in an unkind way
I don’t want to talk about anything
I don’t want to talk about anyone
Hoarseness will ingest lungs
Loss will be learnt from rot
I [will] have no eyes
I [will] have no tongue
I [will] have no heart
They told me it was medicine.
A cure in a capsule.
A little light in liquid form,
a powder path to paradise.
It whispered like honey,
slid smooth down my veins,
said, “I’ll heal your hurt, hush your hunger,
pull the storm from your skull.”
And it did.
Oh, it did.
The world slowed
colors stretched into forever, and my chest unclenched like a fist finally letting go.
But the bottle had teeth.
The pill had claws.
The powder carried a price tag I couldn’t read at first.
Every high built a higher wall.
Every flight carved a deeper fall.
The nectar that kissed me sweetly at midnight
bit me raw by dawn.
It is love that leaves bruises.
A friend who steals your shoes while you sleep.
A healer who poisons the wound so you’ll crawl back begging for the cure.
They don’t tell you the double-edged truth:
that the elixir doesn’t choose.
It cuts both ways
one side silk, one side steel.
And you,
you are the bleeding in between.
So I stand with the glass in my hand,
heart trembling on the rim.
Asking myself
is it medicine?
Or is it blade?
And the silence answers,
“Both.”
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
I lay down and think,
think about everything.
About failures from my past,
mysteries from the present and all
that could come next
to make my heart beat fast.
What will happen and what will I do?
It's easy to overthink it,
but fate is unknown – for me too.
Humanity is dying,
it's the only truth we know.
But faith I will never lose in you.
You're my light every night,
keeping the monsters out of sight.
You're the sound I need in silence,
the sun that lightens up the sky.
Your warmth with every touch I keep,
I feel it
when you aren't near.
Because I need you to live
like I need lungs to breathe.
Without you
I would drown in the sea of my tears
I cry for losing you.
That is the truth
you have to know.
You are my peace I need to remind me –
I'm not alone.
Even when I overthink
and my mind won't shut down.
I'm okay
when I'm not.
Thinking of you helps me a lot.
Your presence heals my world of chaos,
calms my mind and slows down my heartbeat,
like the only drug I'll ever need.
Drug addiction wounds families,
weakens the nation,
and steals the people's joy.
Dear parents,
you are the frontline warriors-
Rise and fight the menace.
Plan wisely your stretegy.
Do not be disheartened or fall,
when your son is addicted;
and do not let it damage your health.
Wake early each day,
exercise beneath the morning sky,
eat nutritious food,
and keep both body and mind fit .
For it is a struggle to survive,
to shield the young from death's grim knife,
and from the jaws that seek and rend.
I declare this little body.
My Substance –
Unholy sanctuary for little thoughts,
The only place for night’s retire
To draw the curtains – growing hair.
Wired to lofty beams by absence,
Drug of setting sun –
Now bed I a sanctuary of echoes,
Resounding in the lonely core,
I am become the nightmare walking.
I am Creature –
Who creeping, peoples,
This unbroken dawn.
I dragged this cig, my brain went far gaga,
The same cigarette brand that brought me joy;
A puff, and I slipped into a pooh-Bah,
One short drag became enough to destroy.
My legs wobbled, the world around me spun,
I heaved heavily, yet relief slept still;
The fun I sought had never yet begun,
In its stead, I commenced a mental drill.
As I puffed a new cig to chase a fad,
Deeper curiosity did arouse.
How can a mere cigar torture so bad,
A dream taught me the thought in intense drowse.
Later I learned the cig was laced with crack~
The closest I came being a junkie;
That pal later picked madness in bump's track,
Why I never became a crack flunkey.
The thundering pain
The fills my bones
Skin stretched right
A razor blade
Drags out
Never digs in
Can never quite reach
The itch within
Corroded clouds exude narcotic, honeyed sap,
Quelling ancient mayhem in a digital trap.
A quiet ritual, a ballet of bone and steel,
As the mind succumbs to a whispered, lucid deal.
Relics hum in the hollow of the throne,
Nerves collapse in a drug's strange, echoed tone.
A gilded cage, its promises now dust,
I grow my paper-cut wings, born of fragile trust.
Today would've been his birthday but he didn't survive.
If John hadn't died, today he would've turned fifty-five.
He started by smoking pot and then he decided to start doing Meth.
That stuff is nasty and it didn't surprise me when it caused his death.
John angered some people because he stole from them.
When he died because of drugs, it was both sad and grim.
I'm very sorry that he died even though he stole from me.
He can never steal or do drugs again because he's gone for eternity.
[Dedicated to John W. Brown (1970-2019) who died on June 3, 2019]
Drugs and dope lower immune and social defenses
Out of wits and senses
Prone to diseases and loss of breath
Ends only in DEATH
09/September/2025
Drugs Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rob Carmack
My favorite flower
Holds lots of power
It picks you up
In less than an hour
It’s purple and green
A kaleidoscopic dream
I feel so serene
With MJ on scene
Mary Jane’s the queen
The green school dean
Never leaves me on ‘seen’
Her reputation’s clean
Papers blunts wraps
I smoke after naps
So puff puff pass
And pass that grass
Indica helps me sleep
Sativa’s my favorite tree
I need it for days like these
When my mind needs some peace
Space cakes make you dream
The feeling is supreme
It’s effects are extreme
So be careful with the queen
She helps with the pain
She helps keeps me sane
So may she always reign
The green goddess Mary Jane
Specific Types of Drug Poems
Definition | What is Drug in Poetry?