On Our Backs

Laying down for something 
The specifics are immaterial 

We all prostitute ourselves
For someone or for some reason 

A person having intercourse for money 
Is no different than another hooking up for a thrill

Both are looking to gain a result
Whether it is emotional or material 

Everyone has a fault,
Like green scars tattooing across our souls 

We can't point the finger
Because everyone's story is different 

Standing on a street corner
In the cold as strangers cast icy looks 

Just trying to pay rent 
Or numb their pain with a fix 

Trauma, neglect, bad luck,
A plethora of issues behind the surface 

An industry of exploitation 
Perpetuated by those who claim to be nothing like them 

The people that they use 
As they lay down to remedy their loneliness 

Some use social media,
Selling themselves out for attention 

Different medium but the same intention 
To obtain something that they didn't have

Like the people who sweet talk their bosses 
To get bigger positions, even when they don't deserve them, 

That in itself is a form of soliciting 
We are hypocrites, thinking that we are different, 

In the end, we are all courtesans,
Pointing the finger at our own reflections.