Foggy rooms, full of hops

Harmless right? Smaller than your finger, tendrils reaching out towards the sky as you watch it carefully smolder between your fingers. Is this it? All the hype over a tiny little thing like this? I can do this, its hardly worth the breath wasted on it. Tight lips, calm face, tiny breaths, flowing thoughts, yes, no, maybe, go. Red checkered lights arise in approval as you feel your body escalate and rise a little from your feet. Heart slows, pulse drops, eyes drop, thoughts crawl, fingers stiff, blood flow, breath out, breath, stop.
Is this it? I don't see cows, I'm not feeling addicted, I'm not dead, maybe I'm fine.
Step two, breath, stop. Pass, and watch the tendrils reach towards the sky, eyes tilt up and the ceiling seems to open up into the world, no longer a room, and yet the smoke only floats above your head.
Is this it? Is that all? I can do this. But you can't.

Drowsy eyes, and clumsy feet, stagger through the stairs into the hall and up the door. High, low, back, front, everything seems to twist without moving. Is this all? Is this it? This it is? What? How? Don't ask, you don't understand. Touch, taste, dull and dim, lips hang and loving is easy. Easy loving? Beltwards backs and topside hats.
Three steps on a 10 step stairwell, can you climb back to your bedroom?
No hope, no taste, feel the flavor fill your veins. Image blurs, memory fades, is this how it feels to die? Blackness crops the edge of vision, and night fades into a dim view which fades from sight until you meet Monday, two days later, lost a weekend to a harmless little glass.

Is this it? Is this all? I can't do this. I want help, let me be free.

But I can't be. He can't be, she can't be, they can't be, we can't be. I can't be free.