Bored Of This Poem by Lucy Gray

I spend the morning thinking.
Shall I go to church tomorrow?
Or shall I be cast into a dark, cold park
pursing my shivering lips around cigarette
ends, tasting the taste of plant fumes which
slowly descend in clouds from my mouth,
dispersing and reversing
into the air of my mind. Fogging my thoughts
So that I laugh in the face of absurdity,
but am secretly struck in the heart and my wisdom
plucked away.
Someone ties a blindfold around my optimism.
This is the world, can you see better
now?
No. I'm scared.
What have my friends made of me,
made of themselves?
What are we doing with these tools of turning wheels
and glass pipes which illuminate in the hovering moonlight
cast from above,
casting shadows on our faces,
as we forget friendship and love drugs?
Only drugs.
No I can't come out tonight
because I want to sleep well.
I don't want the twitches and the paranoid itches.
I don't want the voices and suffocating choices
and that feeling of feeling too much and feeling too well.

Who are my friends, now?