(bez virsraksta)
Aug. 18., 2015 | 08:27 pm
There is no real evidence. Blood. Inability to get stoned, Frightening moods. And my creativity is weak. Dead. Dull. The light is something else. Some chemical, brutalised version. And boy does it mess your lungs up.
Sick. Unavoidable. It's a melancholy trip. It does have positive traits. It is very addictive. But I see it now for what it really is. The black snake all along. There is guilt; soul-kicking sadness. And the dead part of your chest wakes. Tell myself it's going to be alright.
I have annihilated, eradicated my memories. I have emotive, strongly-felt memories. But details are my devil. I see it all now. How deeply layered the hold is. A drug that smashes, bends and drowns all the elements of myself I'm too terrified to admit.
It is a poison, Spice, or Black Mamba, or whatever else synthetic cannabis is branded as. My mind and body have had time to breath and heal, but the rusty, smeared-window view of the world that Black Mamba gives you is a hard one to escape. The hours I slept back then were the only hours that I wasn't smoking; a pathetic way to live any life.
Black Mamba will snatch you by the throat and kiss you deeply. It makes you forget why you are. Which, to me, defeats the whole purpose of hallucinogenics. I spent years building some false, black dream. All I'd been was a vessel, driven by an insatiable need for an unknown combination of chemicals.
Sick. Unavoidable. It's a melancholy trip. It does have positive traits. It is very addictive. But I see it now for what it really is. The black snake all along. There is guilt; soul-kicking sadness. And the dead part of your chest wakes. Tell myself it's going to be alright.
I have annihilated, eradicated my memories. I have emotive, strongly-felt memories. But details are my devil. I see it all now. How deeply layered the hold is. A drug that smashes, bends and drowns all the elements of myself I'm too terrified to admit.
It is a poison, Spice, or Black Mamba, or whatever else synthetic cannabis is branded as. My mind and body have had time to breath and heal, but the rusty, smeared-window view of the world that Black Mamba gives you is a hard one to escape. The hours I slept back then were the only hours that I wasn't smoking; a pathetic way to live any life.
Black Mamba will snatch you by the throat and kiss you deeply. It makes you forget why you are. Which, to me, defeats the whole purpose of hallucinogenics. I spent years building some false, black dream. All I'd been was a vessel, driven by an insatiable need for an unknown combination of chemicals.