No one knows you’re hungry, angry, lonely, desperate.
You can’t hide it from your dog–he pukes.
Your cat is prone to frostbite.
It seems a little dishonest, which is a personal pet peeve of mine.
The rewards seem so far away.
The one person you really wish would help doesn’t give a damn. Other good people tend to fade into the woodwork.
You can’t seem to stop life from passing you by, can’t even catch up long enough to stab it in the back—yet sooner or later you have to see another human and say, “I’m fine, How are you?”
Being poor is a relentless curse, and also taboo. My disguise will wear thin like the people I see everywhere obviously starving, sick, deprived of any good news or options for relief. They scare me. I am one of them, but to acknowledge would take the last of my strength with which I might summon a gasp of faith for the moment to come…eat a chocolate, buy wine at 29% interest…maybe survive till spring…maybe not lose teeth…search for the hope that I may appreciate those who care for me before I banish them from memory in a tragically misconstrued plan to vanquish negativity.