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Being Human

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
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