Confessions of a closeted capitalist (poem)

I live in a state of duress
brought on by stress with what I possess
my books, my camera gear
they’re near and dear, but
I fixate and salivate
save and spend, invest and buy
worldly possessions…just to get by (?)
I don’t need this surrealism brought on by my capitalism
but still I take out my cash, my credit card
do I think much about it? well I don’t think hard
that the material I purchase might be real
but living for myself is rather surreal
this thing called money has made me a phony
I talk a good game but I know it’s baloney
I give my time, my strength and health
but I hardly give any of my wealth
I give away parts of me that has no expenditure
living a life that’s equal parts risk and adventure
but I’m cold and calculating, searching and seeking
for temporary fixes that always are fleeting
and with everything I call my stuff, call me out & call my bluff
To which I wonder does it really matter? When is it enough?



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