He needs his coffee to wake up and his trees to sleep. That cocaine to party and his thizzles to geek. His cigarettes for stress and his heroine when no friends. He needs every drug possible to meet the day's end. 

And when he's sober and lonely he begins to cry, because he's tired of living when his pockets are dry. He uses booze to socialize. He wonders why he's alone, his only friends are the vice. Relations all based off of purely sugar and spice. He's a pot head. 

A coke head. 

An addict. 

A junkie. 

Roaming around the streets for a little but of money. And his family, they all see his veins as cold because the drugs had taken over as the excuses got old. 

Who is he now? Does he know where he's going? The only thing that matters is the thing he's toking. And he just won't stop. They can't tell him nothing. Doesn't need any help; he's got his own self loathing.