What’s my job?

What’s my future?

What am I doing with my life?

Why am I not 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,

to find love, to see friends,

not even 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,

to swallow my self-pity.

The streets were overrun with the homeless,

spilling out from every sheltered corner.

They asked me for change,

I looked in their eyes,

and told them 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 one,

singing the ballads of my misfortune

from inside that purse.

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?