Bullshit

No money, or food

Just bullshit.

No care in these cupboards

And love for these shelves.

 

We work it out in silence

Because no one wants to go first.

 

So its bullshit

And the big “hey, how are ya?”

The irony nestled up in

A common wish that

The other was listening

And looked acute without

That long glance beyond.

 

You shouldn’t nibble on your soul

If you can’t grow it back.

 

Sometimes it feels

Like we are selling ourselves

For quick response,

Untouched by value,

And always

Covered in bullshit.