Tattered painter's whites;
The torn paper of a hand-rolled cigarette;
These are the possessions which should rip me up along with them
Yet, it's lessened the grip

In fact, I don't feel much;
Save the relief of living in discomfort, which always beats the discomfort of living in dysfunction
Especially when you know the dysfunction is rolled into function by your own hand

By the very same hand which rolled that broken smoke;
Yes, it's better to mess up your own ingestion than to infest the pleasantries of cleansing incandescence.
So 'fess up when you set yourself up
And don't set the rest up with bad luck
It doesn't take too long to figure out your mess-ups.

After just a few seconds, I inspect; finding rest in the resonance behind this lesson which is not less-than.
Let's then shape this paper back together,
And together find the shape that could never be painted on tattered white paper