Greed points at everything they want and grasps anything they can. Their true form is unseen. Their own hand partially blinds them. Different eyes puncture their crown, stolen from others. They float, detached from all. Their stick is sharpened at both ends
You can meditate all you want, journal about gratitude, walk under cherry trees – but none of that makes the landlord wait another week, or buys meds, or keeps the fridge full.
Financial stability doesn’t cure the dark, but it cuts the edge off. It turns panic from a daily drip into background static. Suddenly you have space to breathe, to rest, to fuck up without disaster waiting at the door.
Money isn’t happiness. But poverty is an open wound. Anyone who pretends otherwise hasn’t bled long enough.