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Perspective

The poor man walks with weary feet, Counting coins for bread to eat. He knows the price of rice and grain, The rising cost, the daily strain. The rich man sits in halls of gold, Speaking not of prices told. He sees beyond the numbered scale, The worth of time, the weight of tale. A poor man sees a wooden chair, A price tag placed, a cost laid bare. The rich man sees the hands that built, The years of skill, the crafted tilt. A poor man sees a diamond bright, A thing of wealth, a sign of might. The rich man knows its deeper tale, The hands that mined, the sweat so pale. For price is set, but worth is felt, A truth that time has always dealt. The poor man counts, the rich man sees— The gap between is more than fees.
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Missed the Years

You praise their light, so fierce, so bright,  
But never glimpsed their endless night.  
You see the crown, the gold, the gain,  
Yet missed the years of silent pain.  

The hands you clap, the names you cheer,  
Once trembled, shackled, bound by fear.  
They walked through storms, they fought through doubt,  
When no one watched, when none spoke out.  

The battles waged behind closed doors,  
The shattered dreams upon cold floors.  
The nights they bled, the days they cried,  
The silent wars they kept inside.  

Every triumph, every name,  
Rose from ashes, walked through flame.  
The ones you praise, the ones who shine,  
Once crawled through darkness—just like mine.

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