love letters


March 20, 2006


Money for me is a curious thing
So many stories it does bring
Combined with those I bring myself
Call to question what is wealth
Yes, money takes an awkward place
Propping up what I won’t face
But on one problem I did not count
I cannot find the exact amount
It takes to buy a perfect life
It depends on both my fear and strife
Which grow the more I believe I’m worth
Resulting from my privileged birth
Which makes me either hip and funky
Or deep inside a desperate junky
Believing since I have so much
I clearly have the midas touch
But is money then my shining alter?
In cash we trust and never falter
See, I’ve been believing all this dough
Had something to do with what I know
But does this stack of cash in hand
Truly come at my demand?
That’s not to say it’s here by chance
But certainly from circumstance
Of which my heart cannot explain
For when I try it gives me pain
And even had I been dirt poor
Is work the reason I have more?
For a billion souls far outwork me
Yet live in abject poverty
So what cost is this relationship?
What stash have I kept in my grip?
Who would I enslave to not be poor?
To keep the truth far from my door?
And would I kill for that desire?
Why can’t I just in peace retire?
Because all these questions bring so near
What I am so afraid to hear
That money, Lord, can never ease
The dilemma of the soul’s unease
Reflected in the evening news
So now the time has come to choose
I’ve been selling what was never mine
From the head of God’s own welfare line
For every person rich or poor
Is constantly at God’s front door
The poor they can’t afford to buy it
The rich just take and then deny it
Those in the middle they shuffle about
Sometimes laugh and sometimes pout
But all these riches I claim to own
Have left an ugly cancer grown
Inside my heart, a subtle greed
That cannot buy what I truly need
Intimacy with my lover’s Maker
To remember I’m always the taker
Let me give it back instead
With gratitude inside my head
For none of this was mine to sell
My heart does know this oh so well
And none of this is mine to keep
Lord let this truth into me seep
On a river of my endless tears
Take away my petty fears
A wife in some colonial dream
A charlatan in some two-bit scheme
For in the end, Lord, all is Yours
To ignore this turns my wants to whores
Intimacy is all I am
The rest is all a market scam
For this world I did not create
Of this there can be no debate
And it follows then in this mystery
I also did not create me
So money thus is just a lie
I use to make my story fly
And all that’s left when the story dies
Is a dream to see into Your eyes
So if intimacy is all I can offer
Could it be the key to the Divine coffer?
All jokes and money and death aside
Could this be what my heart’s denied?
Oh this money’s such a curious thing
So many stories it does bring
Could I choose to give it all away?
Better yet, will I some day?
Or will some part keeping holding tight
To the fear of being cold tonight
Or a fear of failure as the world describes
While selling souls and taking bribes
Lord, turn this dream into emotion
Turn this poem into devotion
That burns off what was never me
So that I may forever see
What the nearly dead surely know is true
That all their money came from You
And all that cash can’t stop this strife
And it sure can’t buy eternal life




copyright 2006 Pete McCormack