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deepundergroundpoetry.com

Deadbeats Need Money Too

These cloudy eyes, bags underneath them, I'm tired as fuck.
I'm asking myself, why stay sober? Already knowing the answer as the only reason I've been sober for 5 months.
Is because I'm broke.
You tell me money isn't everything? Oh really?
Then do you care to tell me why the chair you're sitting in costs you eighty fucking dollars?
Money is everything. It's all around you.
It's on your ears. On your teeth.
You stare at it. You eat it. You shit in it and you wipe your ass with it afterwards.
Money, money, money. Some people burn it. Without realizing what a dumb fucking decision they've made.
Why do you tell me to follow my dreams when you know I don't have the money?
I'd sell weed like I used to but I'm not risking getting fucked over a second time.
If a Stop & Shop or a fucking Burger King would've hired me by now I'd already smoking a whole fucking bag of ATF right now.
I'd be snorting all the Oxycontin I want.
Or better yet I'd have that .45 ACP and I would've blown my head clean off just like I've always dreamed of.
Inhaling quality instead of the asbestos and gasoline clouding the air.
The "fresh" air we breath every time we decide to get off our asses and take a walk.
The concrete you're walking on. It's money. Benjamins, dead presidents, dough, mulah, dinero, cash.
If I were to catch a body right here and now, I'd need the money to clean up the mess.
Not to mention what I'm going to use to kill the motherfucker.
Keep telling me money isn't everything.
We'll see what happens when you can't pay your rent and get evicted. We'll see what happens when your girlfriend leaves you.
When you're in a parking lot begging for change and the security guards tell you to get the fuck out because no one cares.
And the worst part about money is that I'm going to need it to shut myself up.
FetusPancakes
Written by FetusPancakes (No Name Johnson)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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