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 177. What More?
What's left to do Beloved?
I've told my story
To the Scribe.
I've no children
To live for,
No home
To lay my head
Save the earth
That waits
To welcome
Me.

I've a few
Stories I started
But there are so
Many writers
And the Muse
Will find
Another pen
Once mine
Ceases to write.
Right #1?
I'm nothing special.
So why even
Bother?
Of the gift
And not the
Life
Of the giver
Is special?

Yes,
Yes.
A Year and a Day,
So I could write
Some more poetry
To make some even numbers
To have the scribe
Publish the book…
But this world
Doesn't monetarily
Value those like me
Till after we're dead
And sometimes
Not even then,
For those
Are the lucky ones.

Today I don't feel
Especially lucky.

One more festival?
One more year?
One more month
Of this and I am
Not sure I can
Stomach the lack
Of healthcare,
That one
Such as I
Am simply tired
Of fighting to
Get better
Each time
I get sick,
I am tired
Of being
A statistic.

I've done a lot
Of good,
But
I've no home
No family
Only those
That wish me
Well…
Good luck
With all that
We know
You are strong
Enough to land
On your feet
Somewhere
Else.

If I finish
The poetry
Who am I finishing
It for?
You?
Me?

Me?
I'm tired
And I have no say
In when I wake
Nor my next meal
Let alone
When I can get
To the next poem
So you can feel
Good
About reading it.

This is mine.
My therapy.
My words.
My pain.
My Joy
To let you
Know
Your sentiments
Would be worth
More
If you actually
PAID
For the privilege
Of my words.

You've never
Bought a book
That might pay
For my food
Or a roof
Over my head
For the labor
Of my time
Talent
And words.

So I ask you
Again?
Why should
I stay in this
World
Which can't pay
For me
To live?

What more
Would you
Have me
Do for you
For free?

Live?
Breathe?
Poetry?
Art?

I've done that.
What more?
Or are we
Done here?


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