Pining Away Poem by I write because I have to

Long rows of pines,
white mountains of snow,
like the thin lines of blow
that they sniffed like snow drifts two hours ago.
Seasons that change and habits that don’t -
winters of coke
to springs full of hope
to summers of forgetting punch lines to jokes,
autumns of smoking leaves of marijuana trees
back to winters of lines
and the needles of pines,
using needles inside,
injecting their highs,
interjecting their lives,
passing out on the couch.
Life’s passing them by the gram, buy the ounce.
Dirty hail like little black rocks,
the crack rocks they smoked
that they bought on back blocks.
They sit sheltered inside as they watch that black box
smoking holes in their brains, exhaling their pain.
Crumpled dollar bills in the corner with pills,
the same green as the hills that are covered with snow
the same green as the weed they smoked minutes ago
the same green as their carpet all sprinkled with blow
like the evergreen pines.
It’s affecting their vibes; it’s reflecting their lives.
Winter’s depressing, distressing inside,
compressing their lives into sessions of highs
just because it’s too cold to go outside.