Where is my fucking fun? - Poem

Where is my fucking fun?

Thirty is to young to retire, but apparently too old for filth.

His weed that made my skin buzz now only makes me tired.

Did computer games become dull, or the dullness took the desire.

Playing games is a habit that has seemingly expired.

The booze makes me numb, conversations with myself in the dark.

Bottle caps like pebbles kicked under foot.

The novelty has worn off and the tonic is now a medicine alone.

My desk still sticky to the touch from the spilled lager of the night that went.

So, while I seek the next fix to mend what I think is broken.

I still ask in vain the question.

Where is my fucking fun.