Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Capitalism Is a Game, But You’ll Never Truly Win

Dawn is dark,

dirty streets,

dirty air await,

thirty pieces of silver,

on the fishing rod of fate,

daring her to betray herself again.

“Jump from your bed!”

The line smiles and says,

dragging her from dreams,

where she is more than part of a machine.

Last night,

she was at Greenwich Park,

parked on a blanket,

with the boy she liked,

hands tight together.

She kissed him,

just because she could,

until the moon was high,

sky shining with stars,

and they walked home,

to a pleasant, but not extravagant little apartment that they shared.

Dawn was dark,

she recognised it immediately,

bleary bleak morning chased away her dream,

the fishing line,

tapping on her window,

to the same rhythm as her incessant alarm clock,

and she sighed,

staring up at the ceiling for a second

(This was her daily treat to herself),

resigning herself to yet another betrayal.

“I have got to earn my keep.”

She repeats,

line by line, along with the fishing line.

“Sleep and dreams are for the weak.”

Following the glittering coins down the stairs,

still half asleep,

but awake enough to know her place,

she is dressed in darkness,

leaving without breakfast,

to join a collective of clouds,

just as dark as she,

all lead by lines of shining spending money,

that always feels near enough to keep reaching for,

but has never met their hands,

in a meaningful way.

She earns and she shops,

but all she really wants,

is that boy,

the one who lives in her heart,

and the little part of her brain that capitalism hasn’t conquered.

She wants,

and deserves,

so much more from the human experience,

but the world is hard,

and has a one track mind.

Dissent won’t do,


off she goes,

to earn,


and scream into her pillow,

before passing out from the awfulness of it all,

to be with the boy she likes,

for just a little while.

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