Scattered things like lost souls
Scream their futility.
Trinkets and trash charged with endless possibilities.
Illusions of how life could be better so,
I collect scraps of waste masked as human invention
New technologies, toys, and other luxuries
Drive that dark spear of desire deeper into my being.
Want is a sickness, a fever that cycles on and off.
I have I want, I want I need, I need I get.
I get I have, I have I want, I want I need
A scary situation and in its pursuit
I place myself in painful positions
Paying with large chunks of my life.
I get more and as it become easier.
My urges get stronger and stranger,
Joy becomes that much harder to find.
Get it get it get it get it get it
Buy buy buy buy buy buy
Till the pile stacks up so high
That I live and die inside
The world of crap I bought.
Once I start it is hard to stop
And I become the sole possessor
Of this sick collectors disposition.

Crap-tastic manufacturers thicken molasses,
While the turkey workers burn by the boss shoppers.
Consumers pay your bills and spit out your will,
After they chew up the crews and disrespect the efforts turned black.
Good intentions don't exist and content is what they expect.
So take pride that your worth dies when your work is defined by the consumers ability to think they're always right.
And remember that reason takes a slumber when consumers choose the seasons of the year they want to see.