Because

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.