Poem to myself about substances

Always trying to be loving, yet stern, with myself

   O you imbecile of a man, barely worth being called anything more than a boy,
   I know you remember that night you spent, high on an upper, sedated on a downer, on only a few hours of rest,
   Laying there glued to your bed until dawn, afraid your heart was going to give out,
   There, with your arms outstretched, panicking at every hallucinated twitch in your chest.

   Yet here you are again, pill after pill, gummy after gummy, joint after joint
   Attempting to write a novel’s worth of words in single evening and party through the night

   When will you learn, you stupid child? That subtracting sadness from life entirely leaves nothing left? 
   That every attempt to drive it out completely leads you only to death?