If I hear another commercial glaring on in toadying fashion about title loans or exorbitant jewelry, I do believe by belly button will suction myself into a mangled flesh raisin.
We are just marionettes in this abhorrent charade of a game, indentured servant to the very thing we lionize and worship.
It's laced with the portent of hope but made with the intention of despair.
It's the reason we are reeled out of bed in obsequious duty and fall asleep in existential worry.
The thing in which can establish an empire yet eagerly turns around to act as the executioner.
Overweening on the stiver of promise you plot the grave where you will soon rest.
They tell you that happiness is a biological setting, yet how can this be when the seas of  currency are what determine if I am able to eat.
You mold a throne for some by using the sinew and soul of the others.
You are the reason our economy functions, and the reason for humanities destruction.
Nonchalantly buried in my jeans, the crumpled green paper of misery.