How much longer will I pad the dreams

of others who pay me daily.

 

Why is my vase full of distracting sand

instead of pebbles that count, that matter.

 

My true life skills, my singular gifts

are stifled in admin, thoughts of bills.

 

Striking out, writing stories down

feels impossible, crazy, waste of time.

 

And so I count, I help, I fix, I support

the sorry souls of others.

 

But when will it dawn that I could die

with my stories still inside me.