What is the capacity of our lives?
How much shit can we fit to satisfy the fetish,
Of material commodities?
Possessions, the ruler of happiness.
I can't resist the overindulgence in this shit.
In order to truly understand our ridiculousness,
I would have to be stripped,
Taken away from my ever-growing mountain of bits.
It's not just a disorder of the rich,
It's nearly every American to be stuck in this ditch.
Even when the majority is living in the pits.
At what fucking point can we agree that we really have enough?
As the mountain forges upward,
We suffocate in an abundant heap of our
own chattels.
Assets like a drug, to satisfy.
Sufficiency is a dream.
The modern perception of adequacy is a fucking disgust.
Desire is an infinite void with out borders that can never fulfill the eternal lust.
If only we could see the boundaries,
Perhaps we would be able to draw the line to separate what we truly need.
Self-gratification seems to come wrapped in plastic,
With a price tag on it,
And every fucking store seems to have it.
We are told to soak it up,
To keep a full cup.
And this is considered a blessing.
What the fuck?
We are told to soak it up,
To keep a full cup.
And this is considered a blessing.
What the fuck?