While others starve to protest — here I am,
starving for meaning.
With the job I chose,
the cases I’ve closed —
I'm still reaching for a dream:
to change what refuses to bend,
to cradle a life not yet mine,
to believe in something
bigger than the hollow I carry —
a goal that shifts like smoke:
close enough to taunt,
too vague to hold.
Then the guilt weighs in, interrogating —
Are you dying?
Are you broke?
Count your blessings.
You have a job that serves,
that brings food home,
that keeps you afloat —
even if your soul feels hollow.
With shame, I sip my tea,
check off the list,
move to the next,
give up the thought —
like the smoke of dreams.
