What Would You Rather Have: Money or Fame?

I have walked through corridors of want,
Where shadows dance with golden light,
And whispered questions come to haunt
The chambers of my restless night.

Two sirens call from distant shores—
One glittering with coins and wealth,
The other bright with fame that soars
Beyond the boundaries of stealth.

I've felt the weight of empty pockets,
The gnawing ache of bills unpaid,
While watching others hold their lockets
Of prosperity, unafraid.

Money, they say, can solve all woes,
Can build the bridges I have burned,
Can ease the path wherever I go,
Can buy the peace I've always yearned.

I've dreamed of vaults filled to the brim,
Of numbers growing in my name,
Of never having to swim
Through poverty's relentless game.

The comfort of a feather bed,
The luxury of choice each day,
The freedom from the constant dread
Of having nothing left to pay.

But then I've seen the wealthy weep,
Behind their gates of iron and gold,
Their riches vast, their sorrows deep,
Their stories never to be told.

I've watched them count their endless treasure,
Yet starve for something money can't buy—
The warmth of love beyond all measure,
The truth that makes their spirits fly.

And then there's fame—that blazing star
That pulls me with magnetic force,
The dream of being known afar,
Of mattering in discourse.

I've imagined crowds that cheer my name,
The flash of cameras in my face,
The intoxicating rush of fame,
The feeling of my rightful place.

To be remembered when I'm gone,
To have my words or deeds survive,
To be the one they lean upon,
To make the world feel more alive.

I've craved the validation's glow,
The applause that thunders through the hall,
The recognition that would show
I mattered, after all.

But I've observed the famous fall,
Their private lives exposed and torn,
Their every stumble, every crawl
Displayed for public scorn.

I've seen them trapped in golden cages,
Their freedom sold for public eye,
Their stories written by the ages,
But never allowed to cry.

The loneliness behind the smile,
The mask they wear both night and day,
The distance growing, mile by mile,
From who they used to be.

So here I stand at crossroads bare,
Two paths diverging in the wood,
One gilded with the millionaire's
Delight, the other understood
As fame's bright, burning boulevard.

I've weighed the scales ten thousand times,
These questions that refuse to fade:
Would riches heal my paradigm?
Would fame lift the barricade?

I think of those who chose the gold,
Who built their castles high and wide,
But in their hearts, I'm told,
Something precious had died.

The simple joy of morning coffee,
The pleasure of a nameless walk,
The freedom to be quirky, scoffing
At pretense in their private talk.

And those who chose the spotlight's glare,
Who danced upon the public stage,
But found they couldn't bear
The isolation of their cage.

No quiet moments to reflect,
No sanctuary from the crowd,
No chance to be imperfect,
No whisper in the loud.

I've pondered through the sleepless hours,
What price I'd pay for either gift,
Which poison, which of these two powers
Would cause my soul to drift?

Perhaps the answer lies not in
The choice between these two extremes,
But in the balance found within
The middle ground of dreams.

For money without purpose leads
To emptiness despite the wealth,
And fame without noble deeds
Becomes a burden to oneself.

I've learned that true contentment springs
From neither gold nor public praise,
But from the simple, sacred things
That fill our ordinary days.

The love of family and friends,
The work that gives our life meaning,
The grace with which our story ends,
The quiet moments of gleaning.

Yet if I must choose between the two,
If fate demands I pick a side,
I think I'd choose what's tried and true—
The path where I could hide.

For money, though it brings its woes,
At least allows for privacy,
For quiet spaces where one goes
To find their truest identity.

But fame, that bright and burning star,
Consumes the very thing I'd need—
The freedom to be who we are,
Away from public greed.

I'd rather have the means to give,
To help, to heal, to make things right,
Than in a fishbowl always live,
Forever in the light.

So money, with its weight and curse,
Seems lighter than fame's heavy crown,
For riches, though they could be worse,
Don't tear the spirit down.

But wait—I hear a voice that calls
From somewhere in the shifting air,
A question that enthralls
And makes me stop and stare:

What would you rather have: money or fame?