Ode to My Vishap (or My friend Jack)

I fear one day I'll go impotent,
It's a potent fear of mine.
It strikes me in midst of a paranoia,
How I hate coming back to these stages.
And when I consider it thoroughly,
I'm thankful for medical advances.
And I want to research and compare,
And I want to ask my friends,
But they're too much
Products of Propriety,
Bent on pomp and glory,
Boasting of their masculinity.

There's a discrepancy
Between the brain and the yearning:
Or perhaps they're one in the same,
Worn out from continuous chemical strain.
Surely, I, too, have worn myself out with this fatigue:
Recovery days that take longer than they used to.
All I know is constant intoxication and disintegration;
The flame flickers as soon as the passion ceases -
The experimentation stage is so high school!
I'm not as sharp as I used to be
And I think I may have contracted ADHD.

When the thrill is gone And you're a cliché,
A target of trigger effects and impulses;
When you write lines on scraps of paper,
blasting Leonard Cohen,
Sustaining tears of lost potential -
With your own drunken pomp and glory...

I hope these lines are as fulfilling,
When I leave the arms of Morpheus,
And the companionship of my friend Jack.