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.