The Portion We Deserve
Life does not hand us what we wish for,
it weighs our hands, our scars, our steps,
and offers only what we have earned.
Nothing is promised.
Nothing is guaranteed.
Yet nothing is wasted.
See the laborer, mocked for his patched shoes,
walking home with a day’s wage clutched tight.
To the prince, it may seem crumbs,
to the noble, an insult to dignity
but to him, it is bread for the children,
it is fire in the hearth,
it is proof that the struggle is never in vain.
He does not curse the throne
for feasts he will never taste,
nor drown in envy of golden cups.
Instead, he savors the coin in his palm,
small but honest,
a song of sweat and endurance.
We dream of palaces and crowns,
yet dreams do not fill the belly.
What matters is the road we walk,
the storms we bear,
the battles we dare to fight.
Critics may laugh,
call him common, unworthy
but their laughter cannot stop his harvest.
For life does not bend to desire,
it bows only to grit,
to resilience,
to the hand that refuses to let go.
And when he lays down his weary head,
he carries more than bread
he carries the truth:
that survival belongs not to the richest or the fairest,
but to those who never stop moving forward.
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