We cannot seem to spend a day,
On health, it's always wealth,
On hearth, it's always in disarray,
On heart... on heart, we always strain,
Forgetting we all are feeling this way,
Seeking solace and silence to block out the days,
Sinking tired, growing broken and grey...
No matter what we achieve,
Every day, every pay check bleeds,
On health, there's never enough wealth,
On hearth, most days seem bleak,
On heart, on heart, we always believe,
carats measure the depth of feeling,
scraping up enough for our sorry's,
filling our cups with mistrust and jealousy,
for when we must break, and bend, and sweat, and kneel,
for a little of nothing, we feel like we're nothing...
when we are weak, and tired, and no relief is offered,
we grow resentment, and a resilliance to anything.
For when apologies are bought, and sold, and traded in,
how can we trust sincerity, or feel connected,
when it's not enough, though the bill was too much,
and takes the place of progress and resolve like an infection.