Occupational Misery

Is the life of a writer

Forever plagued with bouts of misery?

If so, how could I ever be one?

Is the life of a chimneysweep

Eternally dishevelled?

If so, how could I ever be one?

Is the life of an actor

Full of never ceasing illusions?

If so, how could I ever be one?

Is the life of a carpenter

A meaningless existence?

If so, how could I ever be one?

But I am just a chimneysweep

Clearing out my mental soot

And I am a mere carpenter

Fashioning my sorrow from the knots

I am a simple actor

Make-believing my utopia

And I am a common writer

Scribing the same angst you’ve heard before