You speak through me
as if I were a mannequin.
Through you all that I have felt
and all that remains within me still to feel
is made to sound hollow, laughable.
You who would guide my hands
will not pay the cost of their labor.
All that I do, I must do, in service to your greed.
And if your advice knocks me off course
it is I, alone, who shoulders the blame.
You who boldly claim to possess
the secret to success and happiness
do not know what it is that makes me tick
and how could you possibly know
when I am but one cog among billions?