Everything is almost gone. One by one, piece by piece, dollar by dollar, gone.
Once the bread is gone, will I write? Two cigarettes left, then what, will the writing stop?
Smoking by itself won't kill you, you need a job to achieve both, and one kills faster than the other.
I've asked too much of everyone, no one wants me around anymore. One by one.
Running out my credit with the world, I am just not good for it. Dollar by dollar.
Now the bread is gone, will I steal? I have no cigarettes left, why write?
Just stare, bitter, at the page, seeing it clearly, no smoke to get in the way, one kills faster than the other.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem