What’s my job?

What’s my future?

What am I doing with my life?

Why can't I be like

the stars in the night,

burning with passion?

I work myself to

the bone everyday,

walk home with coins

dancing in my pocket,

and collapse in a

heap inside the door.

There's no time

to think, or find love,

see friends, or to eat.

I could shine as well,

if only light could

reach this hidden place—

if I could find

a hole that's wide enough

for my self-pity…

All the streets overflow

with the homeless,

spilling out from

every sheltered corner.

A man asked for change,

I looked in his eyes,

and told him that

"I have nothing myself.”

It's only half true.

The coins I have

belong to another,

and the dance they do

is a mocking jig,

singing the ballads

of my misfortune

from inside that purse.

I'm not concerned by

pearls cast before swine;

my bucket has no bottom as well.

I walked away with a stone in my gut,

trying to digest the world's cruelty.

What deep pit can I

cast my shame into,

So I'll shine bright,

like I know I'm meant to?

Pray, am I meant to?

I'm dying of thirst.