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I have been using weed to cope for a few years now. It’s helping but it’s never enough. I wrote a poem in the comments if you’re interested.
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Anonymous 3d

1. I am endogeniety—
familiar hell over unfamiliar heaven,
positive feedback looping,
break yourself again.

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Anonymous 3d

3. Wake. Work. Health. Hath. Life.
Why is this monotony
when I’ve worked so hard till now?

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Anonymous 3d

2. Drowning the silence
when you can’t smoke yourself to life,
barely snaking by then.

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Anonymous 3d

4. Self-serving botany—
smoke yourself out,
drown the anxiety
that mounts into anger.

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Anonymous 3d

5. Frustrating—
how grief lingers,
how your old self is dead
but she wasn’t much to mourn.

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Anonymous 3d

6. You just hate the new one,
same ol’ stressors worn
like old skin,
like waiting
for a heaven you can’t name. Familiar hell keeps pulsing.

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