I am an open book,
but everyone keeps reading the same page.
There is more to existence than the bare extremities,
Bursts of happiness and then rage.

Procrastination,
A lazy man's tool,
Cluttered bedrooms and takeaway food.
Every day tasks,
Now that's a situation
Sleeping in until your own damnation.

Waking and baking,
The day goes up in a blaze
Calling in sick to work,
But you are faking.
Trapped in a haze,
Stuck in my old ways,
A lonely stoner in the making.

Greek stories - chill me to the bone,
Myths and legends, a castle and throne.
My favourite - King Midas and his golden touch.
I feel like I can relate, without having to try too much.
But, whatever he may touch will turn to gold.
I am different by a bit,
Whatever I touch turns to ****.

Why do I find beauty in burning my bridges?
Immense heat, a false conclusion and less responsibility.
Damaged to the core
Broken promises, even though I swore.

Why do I find beauty in narcotics?
Escape this reality - caught within a warm grasp.
The reason why I am psychotic,
****, pills and antibiotics.