Think of the office

as a madhouse, then the rest --


is pretty normal.

Money allowed to ever expand
Brings scarcity to every land
Money scarce and tightly bound
Creates abundance all around

An ever increasing money supply
Destroys our freedom by and by
We’re not even free to choose
We must spend now or we will lose

The Bitcoin Standard echoes true
A sounder money for me and you
Allowing us to save, or invest
Or buy the things that we think best

Let’s build the world we want to see
With lots of wealth and energy
A world where money’s scarce and tight
With freedom sure, our future’s bright

If she's easy  just like

     How she was easy

     Then what does that make you?

Earthlings live and lose
Standard human protocol
No one is exempt

As a little girl she always knew
That she lacked something special
Her own mother reminded her constantly
And the lass is now a grown woman

Adult experiences confirmed what was true
That she was just ordinary and dull
A woman with no it factor
Invisible to all before and around her

She's heard and hears stories of other women
Who use their wiles on hungry men
'If only I had that gift I'd feed a hundred of them'
Instead she's bypassed like she's not even there

Old age is catching up to her now
She may as well be thin air
The only ones who see her are other women
But never the men she dreams of

Ordinary is boring and typical
Nothing exciting about this creature
She might as well be dead and buried
Along with any hopes of truly being seen

i dragged the blade across my skin
and bled the pain away
the curse that flowed around within
no longer had to stay

i huffed and could no longer feel
if i was still alive
and asked for beatings hard and real
to help me then revive

my face had blackened here and there
i morphed into one dead
i had no time to eat my hair
had left my waning head

in time i withered like a leaf
as autumn did arrive
and knew just by the weight of grief
my corpse was still alive

but one day as i sat in bed
and found an empty pad
i wrote the tale of my life's dread
the mourning of the sad

i cut the forms of letters there
the pen unstopped had bled
the curse into the morning air
and i would live instead

(C)2019, Christos Rigakos