Money

     Again, again, and again I am stuffed in and out of the pockets of strangers, only seeing the light of day, or any light for that matter, for a few faint seconds before I am forcibly tucked away into depth unknown. I suppose it's better than being trapped in that dark metal dungeon, crushed between countless numbers of my companions. I swore I'd never go back to that prison, but then again, nothing is ever my choice. I can only hope I'm traded from kind hands to kind hands, ones that won't tear or bend me, but that would be a miracle. Instead, I always seem to encounter sweaty grimey hands that toss and bend and squander me away on useless materialistic goods. I had thought that people would have much more respect for the first president of the United States.