A Beggar’s Thoughts: A Poet’s Journal

Standing on the streets of my mind, desperate for some change. What can you spare for me? Can you spare me, stranger? Spare me from cynicism, the broken shoulder of philosophy. There’s an element to suffering, one I’m quite familiar with, for without pain, there is no power. I am a beggar in my mind; where passion is currency, where consideration is a drug to crave, where desperation settles deep within my spirit. Desperate for an eye’s attention, here comes dopamine’s phony affection. Deflated egos everywhere are familiar with the feeling of ups & downs, and sideways looks. A beggar knows misfortune and her dreary streets to sleep. Home is a dream for discarded sentiments, a treasure, a concern to keep.