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Joints, not the kind you roll, not that altered state of mind that you have to buy.

Take in that puff, inhale that emptiness and pass it to the next. A room clouded with smoke, does everybody think that shit’s dope? That the air is filled with lost hope.

When that one half can’t get high anymore, screams dissolve into sullen sighs and that ‘ I don’t care anymore’ comes out. You exhale that warm chronic into the world, but it’s still so damn cold. Tears run down your face at the memory of daddy’s ‘ I don’t care’ when he left , leaving mommy feeling like death.

These joint’s connect your world. You fill up with slow sex in bathrooms and can’t even look her in the eye when she tries to say ‘I love you’, you’d heard it all before. You knew that tomorrow she wouldn’t recall. You felt like you belong in these streets, you’d say ‘anywhere but home, please’.

Leave out the weeds, and start plantings seeds. We need more food for thought, because when the smoke clears out and everybody in the room still looks lost.

Written by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography