You say pick your side—
plant your feet,
swallow their slogans,
bleed their cheap dyes.
But these silk-suited puppets,
their teleprompter tongues
lick the air like flames,
while we scrap over crumbs
of their scripted lies.
The machine churns love,
not broken, no—
built to feast on our fractured cries,
to keep us chasing ghosts
down the same cracked road.
Watch how they peddle tempests
in thimbles, call them tides.
Watch how they carve the human heart
into tribes too small to survive.
But my people,
we’re stepping off this merry-go-round—
palms pressed to the earth’s old song,
where the soil hums a truth
no spin will drown.
Their board’s chalk lines,
not etched in bone.
One good storm, and the grid’s washed clean.
What if we let the rain come?
What if we refuse their crooked game?
What if we meet eyes beneath the masks
they stitched with our own names?
There’s a rhythm here—
do you hear it?
Deeper than their noise,
a drumbeat in the blood.
I’m relearning the alphabet of dawn,
trading their barbed-wire words
for verbs that mend,
nouns that bloom wild
in the wreckage of their walls.
You ask what happens
when the script burns?
We rise.
Not the “I” that fractures,
but the “we” that sprawls—
roots cracking their concrete,
vines swallowing their thrones.
Beyond their funhouse glass
where we’re stretched thin and small,
the real mirror waits:
shows your face in mine,
mine in yours,
shards of the same
unbreakable whole.
And when they sneer,
Who do you think you are?
We are—
The dream.
The song.
The storm.
The rising dawn.
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