Hell

A Poem Based on a Bad Edible Trip

Photo by Mikhail Odintsov on Unsplash

Let’s be rebellious. Smoke until we see our devils. Laughing at the thought, hell could ever exist. Indulging, we eat our sweet desserts, tainted with earthen herbs. They heal right? They are hell, right? I don’t feel anything anymore. I hear the voices of minstrels, singing at my funeral as I wake up, I’m lying on a dirty kitchen floor. It was the devil. He made me do it, consume it. The pleasure now feels more like pain. How can I be climbing, higher and higher? As I make my descent through the levels, of hell. I see myself, from outside of myself. My demons finally caught up to me. I sit upright, in a chair, fearful of the hell that is in front of me. A bad dream. Will I ever wake up?