She stood, pen and paper in hand,
Hating her profession for it was bland.
Searching the starless sky for a sign,
Hollowness at the core left her in a bind.

She needs some freeing.
Her ambition has no ceiling.
Dreams of a Parisian flat with a terrace,
Her wandering mind tends to scare us.

Someday she’ll have it all,
Grinding away day and night, viewed as an oddball.
When that day comes she might smile with what her new life brings,
Or she’ll reflect indignantly, wishing she enjoyed the small things.