Learn more about other poetry terms
The world’s ender is a great pretender, Stocks are its trade when money’s to be made, Rewards spent on vices trigger a family crisis, Losses wasted in fear, you hope to disappear, Fluid yet stable, brings bread to the table, But is profit in paper
They want to get rid of me, They do. Worn out, useless, worthless, Casting me aside they speak of me as something of the past. They tell me I have no value. Essentially, I’m nothing.