No Money, No Honey! But I Have No Money-:Gold Strings and the Price of a Soul

She wore perfume like a promise,

sweet as sugar, sharp as knives—

lips that whispered comfort,

but her eyes were counting lives.

Her laughter tinkled, cold and clear,

each note a calculating chime—

a future built on polished chrome,

and the tireless grind of time.

He came with dreams, not diamonds,

heart full, but pockets thin—

thinking love could still mean something

in a world that priced the skin.

His hands were calloused, spirit pure,

he offered what he had to give—

a quiet strength, a loyal truth,

a simple, honest way to live.

She smiled like she meant forever,

but her love had terms and fees—

“Show me effort, show me status,

show me homes and SUVs.”

Her wish list grew, a hungry beast,

demanding more with every dawn—

a diamond bracelet, grander trips,

till every honest penny’s gone.

He tried to buy affection

with time, with sweat, with pride—

but every gift was just a ledger

in the business of her bride.

He worked two jobs, then three, he strained,

his body aching, spirit worn—

a frantic chase for gilded dreams,

a love that left him stripped and shorn.

She set the bait in honey,

he mistook it all for grace—

till he saw the velvet trapdoor

beneath her angel face.

The gilded cage began to close,

its bars of luxury, cold and stark—

she praised his efforts, soft and low,

then plunged his dwindling hopes in dark.

He sold his youth in pieces,

for dinners, rings, and flights—

thinking if he gave her heaven,

she’d return him peaceful nights.

He traded peace for borrowed joy,

his future mortgaged, day by day—

a flickering hope, a desperate plea,

to keep the growing dread at bay.

But love, when leased on credit,

comes with interest steep and cold—

and she cashed his soul in silence

for a purse lined deep in gold.

Her conquests mounted, one by one,

his spirit shrinking, thin and small—

a trophy on her lavish shelf,

before he had no self at all.

His laughter grew more hollow,

his gaze a dimming flame—

she called him "just another"

when he could no longer play the game.

Her scorn, a bitter, chilling wind,

blew through the wreckage of his soul—

he was just a tool, a passing phase,

no longer part of her control.

Then one dawn, through the silence,

he heard a clearer beat—

not hers, not theirs, but something

rising steady in his feet.

A whisper from his truest self,

a memory of who he’d been—

before the hunger, before the loss,

before the struggle to win.

He walked out of the honey,

sticky with regret—

but freer than he’d ever been,

no longer in her debt.

The chains of gold, they snapped and fell,

a heavy burden, now undone—

he breathed again, a deeper breath,

beneath the rising, honest sun.

She chased with painted sorrow,

a voice as soft as thread—

but truth had cut the gold strings

and stitched his soul instead.

Her practiced tears, a shallow show,

no longer held their false appeal—

he saw the emptiness beneath,

the heart she never truly feel.

He turned once—not with anger,

but with calm clarity—

and said the words she’d never own:

“You can count your cash… but you can’t price me.”

He walked away, a silent strength,

his spirit whole, his vision clear—

the poor man, rich in his own worth,

had conquered all his bitter fear.

Now he tells the younger dreamers:

"Don’t buy love with pain or pride—

if it asks for all your pieces,

then it’s not love—it’s a lie."