I never knew I was poor until it was too late to do much of anything about it.

 And just like that, I did nothing.

Sex ended far too soon, with much of life ahead of me.

 All I sought was oblivion and ecstasy, an endless round of indulgence, but in my poverty I ended up with drudgery and pain.

Something in me broke again, as I looked at the wreck of my life.

Lost in a world of my own, ignored and going deeper.

To spend one's time as agreeably as possible, treading lightly on the Earth and other entities, helping more than hurting, and ready for death at three hours' notice.

Then somehow it all works, despite looking bad on paper, and the idea of getting old seems a good one, to be welcomed.

"We'll get through this," I think, "together and mostly unharmed."

Then I take another hit of the joint and see stars.

 I wasn't a good man, and got what I deserved.

So many people smarter, more focused and hard-working than me, a man who decided to drop out of life and found that it went on regardless.