Why Me

Why must I always be
At the bottom of the barrel
Why must my toast
Always be un-buttered
Always made from mouldy bread
Always burnt to crispness

Why am I the last
To be forever un-chosen
Why am I always picked on
And never picked upon
To take up a noble cause
Why do I never know
The knowing and seasons of others

When the whole world smiles
Why must I weep
Upon my own parade
On my own birthday clowns
On my own chocolate birthday cake

Why am I always rained upon
While the sun shines on others
Dancing in the street, two feet away
Why is my tea always cold
So un-flavoured from weak old tea bags

While others earn their burial urns
With pennies so easily found
I must dig for my richness
Among the dead, so long in smelly ground

I pick the pockets of the prophets
But they have less than I do
But why do others find the gold
That falls through the holes
Of un-holy and broken shoes

Why must I steal my words
From Wordsworth and word smiths
To paint pictures of lost birds
Who never loved or laid an egg

Why must I lay
Upon my death bed
While those older than me
Have found immortality

Why don’t my chickens lay eggs
So my family can be fat with meat
And not forever rail thin and hungry

Why must the seeds of wheat I sew
Forever fall upon un-fallow ground
Forever fall upon un-hallowed ground

I call all my questions out to the stars
Out to the moaning wind
Out to places I can never go to
But my questions return un-answered
And my dreams return un-dreamed
And my love spurned returns un-requited