11/18/2025
1 hit, 2 hits, 3 hits, 4
I lit up the blunt while walking out the door.
The night caught me like an old friend,
cool air brushing against my skin
as if to say, I know what you came here for.
I sat in the silence,
the heavy kind—the kind that makes your chest loosen
and your thoughts come crawling out
one by one, uninvited but honest.
My mind drifted slow,
into the thoughts that I might…
might write down, might turn into a poem,
might build into something that outlives the moment.
A spark becomes a sentence.
A sentence becomes a vision.
A vision becomes something I can show them—
not for applause,
but to reveal the fire I carry quietly.
Show them my power.
My power in words.
My power in feeling.
My power in surviving what I never spoke aloud.
Then—
1 hit, 2 hits, 3 hits, 4 more.
The smoke curled up like a second spirit,
lifting the weight off my shoulders
one inhale at a time.
With each hit the night opened wider,
and the page inside my mind cracked its door:
another rhythm, another line,
another truth I wasn’t ready to say until now.
Eight hits deep,
my thoughts weren’t running anymore—
they were marching, steady, certain.
Every inhale a spark.
Every exhale a release.
Every word forming itself
before I even touch the page.
This is where my power lives—
not in noise,
not in the world’s approval,
but in the quiet midnight moments
where smoke, silence, and truth
finally agree to sit with me
and let the poem begin.