Sometimes
I feel guilty for being depressed.
When I think about people in faraway countries who are starving, thirsty, oppressed.
Or even my close friends
Who have been abused, have been suicidal, have been hurt more times than I could possible count.
Next to them, who am I
To complain about my easy life?
But I am in poverty too
I am starving for love
I am thirsty for happiness
I am oppressed by loneliness
Orange water seems, to me, far more appetizing
Than words of self hate.
An empty stomach
Seems far fuller
Than an empty space in the middle of the heart.
But if we could all pick and choose our own afflictions
Then after all, we'd be rich indeed.