Shit boy smokes and stares as best he can into a broken mirror.

The reflection of his face is hard to find in the lantern glow, a yellow weirdo haze.

He worries about permanence and his lungs grow tight. He is rolling slowly back through moments, lost time, and self-loathing days.

Sure there is booze, and pills, and smoke, but nothing like sweating through seven shitty nights.

Hard to be least sad of all men with access to the lake when you desire madness, oblivion, and consumption of all the things you are not supposed to take.

Took in anything available and weathered the sick, dizzy, mind blank storm.

The wind brought news of far away drugs, an isolated family, and handshake lies to complete the norm.

Remind this man that everything is relative and self-induced madness will always push forward the undesired storm.

Just a few minutes alone and Shit Boy dreams about home.