I get the most out of this when i'm broke

For some reason i keep this paper near dear,
And i can't stop myself from getting fucked up.
But watching night trickle into day,
As fast as i can't stop it.

So soon i get up in reach of work,
Where i'll stand half-dazed too serious to take.
Consumed service haunts me like a ghost,
When i know my account runs dry like a desert.

It's hard to get high when you're constantly low,
The blood's so bright on table cut snow.
And yet in four hours,
You'll be wracked with flowers.

Yet the sticky-sweet smell's gone,
So you wish you were home.
Resting that charred out mind,
In the safety of my own shattered time.