The room, dark and grey with a hint of lava lamp thrown in.
The stench that you smell is of rotten skin with just a dab of smoke.
Sitting here alone, I wonder to myself, "How did it get this bad?"
The noise of my inner soul dying is barely heard over the sound of the city.

Shaking from the down that is upon me, I scour the couch for my next high.
Hunger has arrived, yet, I starve for the only substance that I ache for.
My blood-shot eyes strain to see if my next hit is available to play.
As you can see, life is grand on the Highway of Loathing in which I play.

Striving to be all that I can be, I find the needle in which to eject the
Potion of life into my weary veins that probably can't hold anymore fluid.
Heating the juice that will set me free, I think of all that has passed during
My self-imposed imprisonment began a year ago when I found the joy of high.

Injecting the syrum into my badly scarred skin, the release is overwhelming.
Closing my eyes, a thought escapes from my lips - "Let this be the time".
Slumping to the floor, I find myself staring at the ceiling and crying.
God, if you can hear me, save me from the despair that swallows my very soul.