Each day begins with a struggle,
A struggle to escape the lucid coma,
The closest thing to bliss, however much tainted in nightmare.
Each day I drag myself from the semi-conscious state,
Into the wretched world, sugar coated in sex and hate.
The pain within my chest implodes on my mind,
While my lungs tease me with a craving of such power,
You could never find.
Most days I lay there for what appears to be a second,
It turns out to be an eternity and I am late again.
"But late for what?" I exclaim as I stumble from my bed,
Thoughts of death strangle what's left of my soul and swim around in my head.
I force my eyes to open,
To view a life void of meaning and internally broken.
Within a moment I discover that my throat is dry,
It hurts too much to smoke,
It hurts too much to think,
And with a great discomfort I proceed to get myself a drink.
This water feels far from pleasant, rolling down my throat,
A river builds behind my eyes that I struggle to choke,
With immense hate and shame the tears spill down my face.
"Oh why? Why can't the world just give me a fucking place?"