On the first day of the new year,
I light the finest cigarette up and
sip a cup of black coffee by myself,
then write about hope on the typewriter.
The night is born with stars and torn.
The children of the world recall their little pets,
While the children of Iraq & Syria remember
the dates of their sibling’s death in the war.
I no longer run after the birds and butterflies.
My days are low, like the tears of a dying angel.
My life is no longer delightful and brief,
Even love has been eliminated from my universe.
No one seems to care about my flying wings.
Everyone is celebrating the night we were shattered.
The wooden floor sustained your bitter tears.
This oppression made me an alcoholic and hopeless.
Another cigarette, another bottle of Russian whiskey.
Another great rhythm and blues to listen to alone,
Waiting for the time, and walk missing from the pub.
Destiny undresses my flesh and leaves me as rotten skulls.