Money, time, clothes…scarce.
What am I but a bag of decaying bones anyway?
Warmth, wonder, innocence…scarce.
Don’t ask me why I’m cold inside out; you would know if your eyes pierced the layer beneath my skin.
Patience, passion, peace…scarce.
Is there even a purpose to all this or am I destined to travel the same, revolving loop again and again?
Honesty, sanity, authenticity…scarce.
Where on earth have all these values gone, or have they become as obsolete as the pastimes of our youth?
Thinking, feeling, fantasizing…scarce.
Where did the opportunities vanish to for constructing epistemological fairy tales?
People you can unconditionally trust…scarce.
What isn’t scarce other than the soul you were born with these days?
The notion of scarcity screams my name at the top of its ragged lungs and sings my deepest desires to the tune of a hypnotic melody.