There was once a time I sold myself,
for a wage that shone like gold.
And I was taught to fear poverty,
but never of the soul.

For the soul cannot be counted,
or measured on a scale.
And if it can’t be handled,
it sure as fuck can’t be real.

But the rug was pulled beneath my feet,
when I looked with newer eyes.
And from a year in silence,
I found truth in all the lies.

All the fears are illusions,
and ghosts that haunt my past.
And anything built on shaky ground
was never built to last.

Robert Frost once told me
about a road that I would cross.
It’s the one that’s less travelled,
it’s the one where all is lost.

But Robert Frost forgot to mention,
probably in his haste:
it may be less travelled,
but nothing goes to waste.

I thought I had the ridges
and could fit in any hole.
But it turns out I’m a circle,
and down the road, I roll.

But on that path, there’s tricksters,
and things that taunt and tease,
and obstacles I must encounter,
even when on my knees.

And it makes me lose my faith
in that which is hid,
so I thought I’d go to the auction
and gamble with my bid.

What if I only worked part-time?
What if I only stacked shelves?
What if I killed my dreams
working for someone else?

What if I agreed to 20 hours?
I’d draw the lines myself.
I’d anchor in those boundaries
but still… it’s all for someone else.

This time I tried to convince myself,
sure that I could give just half.
But my soul looked down upon me
and in my face it laughed.

‘Here we don’t do haggle,
here we don’t do strain.
But if your pride precedes you,
here’s your ‘noble’ pain.

And if money is what sets you free,
then here it is in loads.
And here’s the shoes you requested,
to walk the same old roads.

But I know that you know better,
even when all is black—
when you say you have no trust,

you have absolute trust in lack.

So let’s question where you place it,
and question why that’s so.
Why suffering comes so easy
on a road you do not know.

You’re not carrying your belongings,
that’s someone else’s load—
the fears that kept them wandering
from the gold that’s on the road.’

It’s the currency of the living
that feeds upon the dead.
And by the time I’ve retired my body,
my soul has gone unfed.

And they talk about making a living,
or working hard for what you’ve got.
But I’ve watched the generations before me
lose the fucking lot.

So what use is there in bargaining
with that which is gold?
I’d rather be dead than living
if it meant not bargaining my soul.