It's not that I hate the prostitutes, I am one after all
They like me sell their body, yet they don't sell their minds, I sell that too
How can I hate them, they are better off than me, I could be jealous though
When they turn in and tuck themselves, they do not fret over what they could have done better
I worry about my extents, stay awake in furious contradictory overtures of what could, what should
They are better off, sleeping post a weeping of how life handed them a bitter hand
My hands can't even play the cards I am dealt, I am jealous of them, so very
Under this dim street light, away from the legal enforcement I chanced upon a conversation
Neither of us were where we wanted, neither where we were warranted to be
I invited one over to my home, made her a coffee, kept my distance and sang her a song
She left in the morning, post a night of vocal intimacy, as we both were back to the grind
Life
Living
And then the never ending cycle of worries
Until we die, slowly but surely, I see the sun is high, it's noon, I better get back to work
Philosophy doesn't feed my stomach, it hasn't fed anyone truly
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