Too

            Too little, the amount I write.

            Too little, the money I make.

            Too little, the family time I spend.

            Too little, the chances I take

.

            How would writing ease my troubled mind?

            How could loose change fix my life’s sorrow?

            How would hugging a relative soften the grind?

            How should being careless make a better tomorrow?

 

            Too much, the work I must do.

            Too much, the distractions I must ignore.

            Too much, the complaints I hear from you.

            Too much, the risk of not being a bore.

 

            Too many, the voices ordering me what to do.

            Too few, the people grasping I do only what I can do.

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