I open my eyes; my room is a mess,

A vodka-soaked vulture picks at my chest.

My lungs are like plastic, they crinkle and groan,

In my single bed, I’ll wake up alone.

I sit up and wheeze, nursing my head,

‘You can’t down that!’

‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’

My feet hit the floor – that cold filthy ground,

I wipe sleep from my eyes; to the bathroom I pound.

A thousand-yard mirror to study my face,

I shave with a spoon; I look a disgrace.

I turn on the shower, the room fills with steam,

I sweat out my toxins; I yearn to be clean.

My phone is blaring Bob Dylan and blues,

A chime cuts a chord – a friend? Just the news.

I step out of the shower and towel myself off,

I glare at the mirror; I’m still looking rough.

I throw on my clothes; run a comb through my hair,

I’m not looking pretty, but I don’t really care.

I step onto the porch through the post left as litter,

Like an espresso, I can be too bitter.

My lighter clinks open, a naughty old habit,

But I’m Hunter S. Thompson, a visionary bandit.

That’s not at all true – you’re a good little boy,

With noble intentions, you never try to annoy.

But you meddle and nose; plant your feet in the mess,

Go over the top; hope for a quick death.

Life is uncertain, no warning of change,

My self-perception is something most strange.

What man am I? Can I trust my reflection?

My brain disappears when I get an erection.

Am I good? Am I bad? It’s not up to me, 

The man that I am is the man that they see.

Your ‘brand’ is their words as you leave the room,

(Let’s hope they aren’t just wishing you gloom).

Compelled to repeat the same actions each day,

Smoke, drink and wish all my troubles away,

I’d love no worries, but others come first,

Even if they despise me and think I’m the worst.

I don’t know who I am, but I know that I’m young,

There’s much time to learn, take those days one-by-one.

There’s much that is good in my little existence,

But right at this moment, I need some assistance.

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