Wake up each day on a short fuse -
again, yourself, you will abuse.
Colors contrast in cloudy hues;
each day a choice to win or lose.

No delay, a bowl you prepare
ignoring the voice, although aware.
Adoring the pipe - virtual love affair.
Dreams out the window, but you don't care.

Suck the dope in, blow the smoke out -
oblivious to what life's all about.
Your bag's now empty, you start to pout;
inside your soul you scream and shout.

You spend your day trying to score
exactly like the day before.
Only ambition is finding more
even picking crumbs up off the floor.

Stop the madness, ease the pain;
tears flow in a torrential rain.
You try so hard to just maintain -
there is no way - you're no longer sane.

Three days later - that same short fuse;
try to make sense but you still confuse
ways to hold on and pay your dues -
each day a chance to win or lose.

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