Thus Far Poem by Scott Schindler

Nasty bongwater
Thumbs stained black from ash
empty toilet paper rolls,
filled with dryer sheets.

I'm lucky they're all so blind.
I'm lucky theyre so nieve.
I'm lucky by situation.

Charles Bukowski and Stanley Kubrick.
The depression I can't resist.

So tired all the time.
Waiting for the future to take hold,
and get the hell out of this beloved place.

Can I really drag this on for 3 more years?
These habits?