Poem: And on Life Goes

Another month of poverty unfolds before me,
extending it's gut-tightening saddness into the far future.
While relatives and friends live lives of joyful comfort
and even other bums
appear richer than I.
Sucking cock for money has never seemed such a viable option,
the only way to get money
before my looks are gone
and I'm old and ugly,
infirmed, and broke as today.
While people applaud my brilliance and good looks,
telling me "This will pass" and "all will be better soon."
They have no idea.
They say these things to make themselves
and me
feel better.
It does not work.
It has been a year since things began to get worse.
Before that I had two years
of relative peace.
Before that... well... a long time in pain.
Then a year of peace...
then four years of pain...
then a year of peace, then thirteen in pain, then birth.

The Record is not good.