selling myself to a world that didn’t want me when i tried to give myself away

hide the profits in the marginal dismay of another failing quarter, drawn and quartered, playing quarters for shots of hope in hopelessness drunken anger

it isn’t greed, being broke is fine when you have other things to fill the emptiness, but when the emptiness is the only thing you have too much of

my cup is overfilling with underwhelming realities, the cornacopia is filled with rotten sacrament, the stale wafers that are my flesh, wine turned to vinegar

i need to sell myself to myself but poor credit and fiscal ambiguity stand in the way

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