Like Shrooms.

In his head,
he was just a boy dreaming
of what it might be like one day when he got the chance to be a man.
Just a boy down to dance with a thirst to understand
the rhythm.
He was open to the idea of different kinds of music.
He studied Metal just so he could escape the Blues.
Rocked so he could conceptualize the bass,
blasted Beethoven and gangsta rap
like a nuisance,
his neighbors abused,
his muse was Thelonious.
Vibrations busted and his speaker’s broken.
He was open to the idea of different kinds of music.
Yeah. He was open.
Shit,
His guitar was stolen, but he neglected
the strings,
hanging on his walls like paintings of forgotten things
he didn’t remember he had,
but he treasured.
He named it Lucy. Replaced her broken strings
and held her like a baby,
touched her like she was warm.
Just another treasure he didn’t have the capacity to understand.
He hoarded gems in the form of photographs
snapped on someone else’s camera piled up amongst
poetry and sheet music he couldn’t read.
Kept in a ratty cardboard box in a closet
where he went to bleed,
located within
in the cave of his basement.
That was his base,
the only mirror that he could look at without having to see his face
just so he could ponder his own consistence.
Where he could wander the twisted maze
of his subconscious mind,
hungry to find simplicities explaining the
complexities outside his boyhood.
Like life
Like love.
But those were just toys in the hand of a boy
who enjoyed cigarettes and television,
hourglass figures on pretty women and the color blue.
He was simple.
Some say he dreamed awake when he was sleeping,
and the only tragedy was that he never remembered his slumber.
He lived beyond wonder
sober. And when his dreams were over,
he’d be the first to tell you,
“Everyday life is like shrooms for me”
And you could only hope that
his high was like shrooms
and you might buy shrooms
to try shrooms,
but he was on something else entirely.
Temporarily,
he was content to be.
You see,
He tripped.
And when he tripped,
he slipped into the ether.
And he escaped.
Yeah, he was gone,
just a quiet stoner playin’ pong
like it was the best thing that ever happened
to a society obsessed with their oppressor.
Call him Casper, ‘cause he was ghost,
he was the most high
completely straight.
It was when he curved that he touched base
with the reality
that waged war outside his basement.
Just a Gotham outside his batcave
when Batman was twisted fiction.
In his head,
he was a boy wearing a man’s flesh,
a man’s shoes and socks
but something childish beat beneath his chest
like a toy drum.
And he was dumb to manhood.
Life and love were two pleasures he treasured
but he couldn’t find the time to oversee.
“Everyday life is like shrooms to me”
is what he said.
But in his head,
he was clouded.
His talent doubted,
like matches lit in the rain.
Naivete brought him pain
despite the fact that ignorance is bliss.
How was he to consist in a world
where leukemia could have existed?
How could he enjoy television
when the media was just a tool of the oppressor?
How could he see a woman as an object
when he mistaked love, lust and humanity, and misunderstood the very concept?
How could he have made friends with the one who killed his father?
Again,
how could he have made friends with the one who killed his father?
Those cigarettes burned in rapid succession
sparked flame
in the brush fire of his depression
have yet to give the lesson
that they’d be the last to teach.
Who was he to break fast with the beast
when he already knew what it felt like to be bitten?
Bleeding and grieving,
how could he see it?
Who was he to break bread with the behemoth when
he knew he would get stepped on?
How could he have the audacity to spit on those ashes,
time passes and he’ll gray.
Who is he today that he would know tomorrow?
How many more cigarettes will he bum or borrow
from people he never met?
Better yet,
when will he quit the bullshit
he’s become addicted to?
Turning points are only pivotal if you
have the will to turn around.
Where is the ground when he’s obsessed
with the sky?
Sober or otherwise,
when will being high
materialize as something lesser?
When will he love himself enough
to search for something better?

Like Shrooms.

Shaquille Stewart

Montgomery Village, United States

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

Content to be, but at war with what is. That’s what it’s about. Finding balance.

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