Feeling the soft denim of lint.
A twinge of fear swells like dockets
Piling up forcing you to circumvent.
Staring at trees with contempt.
Money doesn't grow on trees
But there is no harm to attempt.
Despite wit my fears cannot ease.
Silently my thoughts turn suicidal.
Watching moths fly away from leather.
The growing senselessness of being idle
Finally hits me like winters weather.
What is left is a man in need of pay,
Yet, I am left to suffer as a stray.
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