My eyes grow sick of their own cyanity.
And blinking merely hastens the withdrawal.
How can novelty drugs be so familiar?
When the crepuscular screams sound vaguely choral.
In even terms, I balance myself,
and fix the world of its smallest woes.
Because I will maintain the illusion
that I am a thornless rose.
In reality my sobriety helps
but I crave the distortion.
My shaking hands will navigate
to the substance of mental contortion.
Because in the end I have no time
for those who do not want me.
And my serenity is wasted
on those who act responsibly.
Because I don\'t care about that
which others spill tears for.
And I couldn\'t give a fuck
if they feel agony from their very core.
Because they are meaningless -
statistics in a book.
Not worth the effort,
not from this old crook.
But none of this is true,
when I think of their eyes;
so sullen and sad
at the prospect of their demise.
And I would give anything,
to help them not hurt.
Because I reciprocate their pain
in a way I cannot subvert.
So I will help until I change,
because I make myself better.