Empty Handed

When I was younger I had an answer for everyone and everything A word of wisdom or encouragement for every situation But the longer I live the less I have to give Not sure whether I ran out of words along the way simply spent my share or whether, sometimes, there are no words left for anyone to say Yes, the longer I live the less I seem to have to give Oh I have love- and empathy... Enough feelings to drown the world in a Biblical-size flood of emotion But nothing more no other store of things to say Seems every time lately I leave my house I see someone homeless, down-on-their-luck desperate, quietly pleading voices softly whispering as not to disturb their last dangling delicate shred of self-respect and dignity Which is hard because there's not much dignity in begging for the basic things like food, or shelter from the cold And while not yet homeless I can't help, as I'm too down-on-my-luck, too And I wonder what the difference is between me and you and them- we're certainly no better just people, jars of clay what's to guarantee that that won't be me... someday?