He who says money is the greatest currency is a privileged half-wit whose IQ is lower than the lowest I scored in high-school math
Money is the greatest currency for the ones who have means and ways, and hooks and crooks, to get some, and some more
For hundreds and thousands others, money is farther than a distant dream blurred out in the limitations of myopic eyes
And hope, their only currency
Hope is a funny currency
It doesn't dwindle, doesn't need to be bought off at the price of your skin, meat, or corporate blowjobs
Hope sells for free
At the traffic signal, in between the deafening noise of a few clinking coins at the bottom of a copper bowl, drowned in the deadening madness of a restless crowd in a hurry to be somewhere and yet heading nowhere
And then there are a few bastards
Who couldn't find enough money to satiate their lust or enough hope to find them love
Who hence decided to spit on everyone on either sides of the road, in the name of disillusionment
Their bruised egos bleeding out poetry, in a desperate attempt to heal
But then, healing starts with belief, and beliefs are born off hope
Dead poets pile up on a bullet train to extinction
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