feeling desolate in this space where time meshes into the host of my debt. uncertain slumber of rite; a net of collection. why does it always come down to money; to raise your hope your praises to make you feel like a good human, a happy human? justify me this feeling of incompleteness because i don't have enough paper to go around taking away all the hands i owe. is my life less valuable because i cannot pay someone today? is my life less valuable since i don't have enough green to pay? am i demeaned to sidewalk skids and tire tread because I came up short? how short of human am i since i have no green to give? since when did paper interject itself into veins? do needles blend it into the stream of blood plasma capillaries dust? there is no green in my blood. i am not rich. i am not paper. i'm human. ~ Jessica M. Wilson 10/30/13 Wednesday, 10:04am
Because it exists and so do I...