Cotton Hungry


My uncle once told me

never to smell money;

for liking the smell of money

is selfish, I suppose,


as if the green scent is blood

in an ocean infested with sharks

and you're the shark, hungry for blood cells,

hungry for money.

So hungry for the cotton that you'd

eat the clothes off of your own back-

or rather, someone else's.

Greedy to own something someone else

once did.

Hungry for their knowledge, the power

they once had.

As if inhaling the scent of currency

will make you better, stronger, incomparably

great by no question.

From your nostrils to your ego.

From your mind to those around you.

I guess what my uncle was trying to say

is that money is empowering, engulfing.

Society is to blame for that one.

The government.

The CEOs of the world.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741