*They say money doesn’t grow on trees. I say it does. I say, The root is evil, And the branches greed.*
They say money doesn’t grow on trees; I say it does. When eve’s lips first touched the forbidden fruit in the gardens of eden, I say she tasted money. I say the human was a broke soul, and the devil a bank teller. I say she tasted power, felt greed, lost everything to gain status. After all, isn’t that what money does to a human. Doesn’t it embody greed in the rich, Resentment in the poor And the struggle of everyone in between?
They say money doesn’t grow on trees. I say it does. Anything is money if you sell it well, my mother says I hope one day my words would promote my thoughts.
*My student textbooks define economics as society's way of managing scarce resources; I define economics as bunch of human beings scavenging the scarce to reach supreme abundance*
We created a god in the image of ourselves: A paper. Something that was blank once, but when written on Something catastrophic At the same time something of use. A paper, A human. We placed it on a pedestal and now gravity is its myth We gave it worth: Paper.
Sometimes i wonder what would happen if we burn all the money in the world. Would we find something of worth in ourselves, Or will we burn away Like the ashes of the cotton.
I heard someone say: *Money is expensive. Money comes at a cost. The mind, The body, The soul, from it all those who sell their souls never seem to get it back.*
We live in a world where a name grants you respect, And what you show is the major judge of your character than what you have. A world where the fortunate sells money for profit, And where the poor thrives on it for their entertainment. A world where virtue is an internet trend, and all money does is make a murderer out of a friend.
Fact: *The overworked is underpaid; The underpaid is overstressed, And the overstressed dies quick Offering nothing but tears in his wills.*
I say money does grow on trees. I say it is the fire accelerant in hell for the rich, And sparks of warmth for the less fortunate. Bartering and trading: Paper for worth, Value for soul, We scramble, And God laughs looking down While we cut down his money trees. Scattering around in eden Killing and dying for a little shade.
If we place value upon ourselves; If we mine the hidden treaures when the goal matches the purpose, A folly wish but maybe then when we set aside what we have, and pay attention to what we own. Perhaps then we may make a difference We may find a gem: Worth. When that day comes we’ll all be something of value: Bills on leaves.
They say money doesn’t grow on trees. I say it does. I say, Let the roots be the womb, And the branches wisdom.
The first line is taken from a challenge by @_rainfrost_ Thank you for letting me use it, kind soul. __________________________________________________________
Sometimes, I feel like Hope is a classic novel with clichéd words, which I'm tired of reading over and over again. And it seems as if I can't just toss it away, how much ever I want, for giving up isn't in my bones.
Some dreams never make it to reality, they get stuck or lost somewhere in the middle of the lucid but illusory night, and as the dawn approaches, without bringing with it our idyllic fantasy, we think it's the beginning of the ending, not taking into account any other possibility.
If I told you that the reverie you wishing to escape in was just a nightmare, that maybe your dreamcatcher did not let in, would you believe me? That's the thing about humans, once we hold onto things; once we make up our minds, we refuse to let go of the knife, even if it's digging mercilessly through our skin. Maybe we are lost so deep in our arcady that we are afraid of any hasty movement that might burst the bubble, and so to avoid the messy aftermath we let the wound grow and keep on dreaming.
Hope isn't an evil entity, but a misunderstood soul, on whom we unload all our expectations and though we know they are bound to fall some or the other time, we keep on playing the blame game.
When I look at the bare, limpid, turquoise sky, carrying thousands of whispered secrets whirling amidst the wilds winds and the tattered wings that it promises to heal, I dare to hope. I hope that someday my scars will heal too and I'll fly higher than any angel, breaking away from my chains and miseries.
When I look at the lithe and fragile branches of the worn out trees, bearing the sins of humanity yet exuding calmth and serenity, I dare to hope. I hope that someday I'll forgive those apologies that got lost on their way to me and in turn I'll forgive myself, for everything.
When I look at the stars on a moonless night, weary, charred and out of breath, yet guiding the lost souls and singing soft lullabies to the forlorn ones, I dare to hope. I hope that those broken memories and lost promises will fade away into a mist of sorrow that disappears when the sun rises above the horizon, bringing with it new beginnings.
As I caress the wounded words and skim through the careworn pages, there's a subtle essence of strength that leaves me wanting more. And it might be a clichéd novel, but as they as, clichés are clichés for a reason, and so I'll never stop reading.
Once upon a time my young heart Was a blooming red rose bud Sun glowed on me with adoration Moon cherished me with love Rain showered me in light drizzles Snow flakes touched me so softly Universe awaited me blooming in All the beauty and blessed nature And I did too that cold moonlight Night in the snowy December days
"What a perfect flower, so so lovely" I heard the voice whisper one night A butterfly ? Who could that be ? Who comes to my garden at this hour ?
Its him, a naughty butterfly he is Pretending to be in love with me Plucking all my pretty flowers And drinking all of my necter From my sweet sweet heart and Later leaving me alone in the night And my flowers he crushed and Stomped on the pieces of my heart Once in a while he passes through My garden, asks me in fake pretence, " Hey, how are you ? Still believe ? Still dreaming ? Of course you are... No one keeps safe of crushed flowers ! "
I wanted to say, " Yes I do believe ! If only you weren't the one I bloomed for I would have been treasured in a heart That knows to safe keep an innocent love "
But I never replied, why would I ? He never deserved an answer Go away from my garden forever Never return, for you are a trespasser
I was a flower and he was a snake As soon as my sweetness faded He shed his skin that I adored so much He matured, his mind changed He changed, it's logic and reason he said Maybe my tears never mattered I wish my heart never shattered