I’ve watched lives lose every semblance of real hope and fair redemption in pursuit of this fucking “hustle” that we’re told is worth our souls.
For the Bible warns its readers against serving dual masters, and yet still, we always fail one thinking somehow God won’t care –
Like that lord of making money and the Christ we pray ignores us, as each person writes their downfall citing reasons said secure.
But what’s safe is far from murder of our innocence being threatened, as we steal and stab towards greatness claiming tables beg more food – how our families might just starve, when in truth, they’re probably hungry not for feasts but faith more nourished than these sins could understand.
Who assigned such ugly terms turning all men into convicts – every child another player thinking games mean growing up?
Like adults, they learn to win cheating rules so rigged they’re broken, chasing prizes death can’t envy knowing life itself is hell.
Those eternal risks we wage aren’t questioned much by people, looking outwards upon failures knowing greed will trump their code – that high standard often blessed before turning into envy, never seen as devils birthing further evils we should fight.
I’ve heard mothers tell their sons that they hate them for not working, and fathers wish their children would employ what demons sell.
I’ve let lovers try to kill in pursuit of being normal.
I’ve found knives in pretty boxes wrapped in paper made of lies when her Christmas card had sworn season’s cheer is why she slayed me, skinned my flesh and mocked its weakness waving wisdom like her flag – feigning warmth by teasing hate, having kisses with disaster while she plotted leaving early because poets weren’t tough.
Now that face I can’t regain is a mask with painted symbols, trading mouths for false protection against judgments spread through air.
I’m voiceless insofar as these talents seem aggressive, falling deaf on ears ignoring every warning words can make.
Those who listen swear I’m nuts, and the rest believe I’m lazy, even if I’m earning penance pointing flaws out through my verse.
No, your “hustle” is a joke and I’m glad this phrase offends you – you’re the virus taking victims never asking if they cared or agreed with selfish whims called success by those without it, dragging kingdoms down besides you since that cash can’t buy you breath.
Heaven fails the ones who try, and rewards its idle heroes – crying champions of expression who create instead of earn.
Wealth is missing from that peace.
It is not a saintly virtue or your sacred quest which mandates choosing labor over love.
I’m sure this naive plea for revolt means almost nothing, even though my fear can’t save you from our natures flawed with need.
The contagious final gasp that we see on news each evening – its our equal end that’s coming whether wallets bulge or not – so I’d rather bleed in red, for what fate should wait beyond us, neither classy nor expensive where our roles do not exist.
Be kind and do what’s right.
That assumes your heart is beating before naming different bosses then ignoring dreams divine.
The Instance and The Phrase 