Not My Strain

I guess you’re just not the strain for my skin or for my mind,

 

Your Indica lips and Sativa hips turn out to be too unkind,

 

Your smokey allure can’t be a cure,

 

Because you make me feel so insecure,

 

I’ll try to find my strain although it always ends the same,

 

I breathe in and that’s my sin as I cough and wheeze in pain,

 

One day I’ll find a nice one to roll,

 

That’ll make me unwind yet still feel whole,

 

You give me the white death while your smoke coats my emotions which turn blue,

 

But week after week I avoid any strains new and revert to taking a toke of you,

 

I’m a lightweight to your strand which I can’t stand,

 

I inhale you deep while I struggle to sleep,

 

The harsh roach makes its approach to my now weakened mind,

 

my thoughts start to sink me deeper,

 

It’s the thought that counts I was told as I viewed the fading ember,

 

But my thoughts, in your haze, lost track of the numbers on the calendar.