We feed these nauseous torments, 
These kindred foes,
Indian givers all,
Who proffer shiny trinkets
With sleight of hand trickeries.

We buy their lies and craft our lives 
On their snake oil promises
And empty dreams.

We pay with our souls, our breath and time 
For maybes of tomorrow’s dawning
And wishes that play
In our fingertips.

They give hope for the hopeless
But abrupt awakenings
From the dreamer’s sleep.

They are love, they are hate,
They are the fate we cannot make.
They are greed, they are guilt, 
Destroying all we have built.
They steal back the faith they give us, 
And give reason to irrationalities. 
These emotions, how they burn and writhe,
Blindfold us to our truth
For better or for worse.
Feel them, guide them,
Claim them for your own,
But do not listen to their lies, 
Seek your emancipation,
Because, in the end,
Now is all we’ve got.