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“Champagne and fur slow dancing at French parties. Money and affairs at cocktail dinners. Smoking cigarettes and laughing in vain cause kings and queens never hurt, they say. Pretty eyes and mouths full of regrets, drinking red wine since the age of 14, cause wine is thicker than blood, and gold coins are running through their veins. Parents travel to Monaco for the honeymoon, only to get a divorce. Poor friends with nothing but money and dope. Call your hot wealthy boyfriend; tell him that you’ve fallen in love with someone too vulgar for your demons to drink a glass of liquor with. Work, bitches work, you shout as if you’ve chew your own gold by yourself. Red dresses and black suits dancing with depression and dying for attention. Oh my baby, with all your money, you couldn’t even buy yourself a soul. And now you pay all the artists in the world to write you a soul. Here you go darling; this poem is your soul.”
— We Call Them The Elite by Royla Asghar (via poems-of-madness)