We were born royalty

How strange to be living in the prostitute quarters
whoring ourselves for our daily bread

It all started so slowly with the exchange of our royal cloak
for an affectionate glance or stroke,
the bargaining of our crown jewels for a bit of acceptance

Until when we are acting like a circus bear
standing on our hind legs groveling for food
that we neither crave nor can digest
using powerful muscles that were not designed for such indignities

Since when did princes and princesses wear donkey skins and haul firewood
whacked to keep in line by the stick of self-forgetfulness?

The tap dance you are performing is not graceful
you are confusing anxiety with movement
numbness for joy
and acquisition with tasting

Remember that prostitutes are much more honest than you
and have far more integrity in their exchange

Stop your squirming:
the pain you are suffering is just the glue of the donkey skin
being ripped off your back

There is only one way to stop suffering such indignities:
stop confusing the stench of the stable for your home

Learn to live raw
until your royal skin grows back.