Poetry is Money

There I sat. Writing a poem to get into the poetry slam for free. Not a jingle in my pockets, my resources depleted, things were looking pretty drastic. The idea of being shut out of the slam, exiled to the existential empire, unable to excel beyond my curiosity. Curiosity of the magic happening behind those doors. There’s a reason they charge to get into poetry slams. Because they say money is the root of all evil, but knowledge is power. So I will pay with my performance. No Euros  just euphoria. Ain’t got no drachmas, just drama. Dispossessed of pesos to pay you, I have procured practice to preach positivity because inactivity is a waste. So I put my money where my mouth is to give you a taste of what has been burning a hole in my pocket all day. They say money talks, so I’m gonna spit my spirit, showering you with gifts that don’t have a return policy. Forget snow this, this season I’m gonna make it rain. Because I’m swimming in money but drowning in debt. I was given the  gift of life and it’s been a gift I’ve failed to ever pay back. So I huddle in the shadows, covered in dirt soliciting spare change to pay the withdrawal fee from within my own vault. I count each coin like Scrooge because I’m obsessed with possession, but not willing to entrust my fortune to produce a profit. Beggars can’t be choosers. So I’ll accept whatever I can get. Proffer a penny for my thoughts and I will pay back your investment with interest. If you demand, I will supply. Money is no object. It doesn’t grow on trees, it’s created in here. We are all literally made of money, so let it manufacture and when you do pay it forward but don’t spend it all in one place. You want to be expensive not expendable. And forget about keeping up with the Jones because Mrs. Jones diamond necklace is fake and Mr. Jones Mercedes is used. Now that we’ve completed this transaction I must remind you that time is money. And it was nice doing business with you.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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