*They say money doesn’t grow on trees. I say it does. I say, The root is evil, And the branches greed.*
They say money doesn’t grow on trees; I say it does. When eve’s lips first touched the forbidden fruit in the gardens of eden, I say she tasted money. I say the human was a broke soul, and the devil a bank teller. I say she tasted power, felt greed, lost everything to gain status. After all, isn’t that what money does to a human. Doesn’t it embody greed in the rich, Resentment in the poor And the struggle of everyone in between?
They say money doesn’t grow on trees. I say it does. Anything is money if you sell it well, my mother says I hope one day my words would promote my thoughts.
*My student textbooks define economics as society's way of managing scarce resources; I define economics as bunch of human beings scavenging the scarce to reach supreme abundance*
We created a god in the image of ourselves: A paper. Something that was blank once, but when written on Something catastrophic At the same time something of use. A paper, A human. We placed it on a pedestal and now gravity is its myth We gave it worth: Paper.
Sometimes i wonder what would happen if we burn all the money in the world. Would we find something of worth in ourselves, Or will we burn away Like the ashes of the cotton.
I heard someone say: *Money is expensive. Money comes at a cost. The mind, The body, The soul, from it all those who sell their souls never seem to get it back.*
We live in a world where a name grants you respect, And what you show is the major judge of your character than what you have. A world where the fortunate sells money for profit, And where the poor thrives on it for their entertainment. A world where virtue is an internet trend, and all money does is make a murderer out of a friend.
Fact: *The overworked is underpaid; The underpaid is overstressed, And the overstressed dies quick Offering nothing but tears in his wills.*
I say money does grow on trees. I say it is the fire accelerant in hell for the rich, And sparks of warmth for the less fortunate. Bartering and trading: Paper for worth, Value for soul, We scramble, And God laughs looking down While we cut down his money trees. Scattering around in eden Killing and dying for a little shade.
If we place value upon ourselves; If we mine the hidden treaures when the goal matches the purpose, A folly wish but maybe then when we set aside what we have, and pay attention to what we own. Perhaps then we may make a difference We may find a gem: Worth. When that day comes we’ll all be something of value: Bills on leaves.
They say money doesn’t grow on trees. I say it does. I say, Let the roots be the womb, And the branches wisdom.