You’re not angry
because you can’t sell your conscience.
You’re angry
because no one’s willing to buy it.
Not the corporates,
not the cults,
not even the chaos mafia
who peddle morality in monthly subscriptions.
You tried naming your silence restraint.
Tried calling your compliance wisdom.
Tried polishing your mediocrity
until it looked like grace.
But truth doesn’t wear makeup.
And guilt doesn’t do well in billboards.
You weren’t ignored for being honest.
You were ignored
because your honesty didn’t matter enough
to be a commodity.
You weren’t silenced.
You were skipped.
Because selling out is now
a talent category.
And your conscience?
Too dusty.
Too dull.
Not relevant enough to auction.
So now, you rage.
You point fingers
at louder liars with fatter paychecks.
You scream
because your whisper never made it
past your own reflection.
But here’s the thing —
the devil doesn’t buy every soul.
He buys the ones that can perform.
You?
You kept fumbling your lines
while waiting for the thunder of claps and lightning of collective sighs
from people scrolling past
your barely-edited outrage.
And now?
You tattoo your truth
in temporary ink,
hoping someone will mistake it
for bravery.
You spit verses about injustice
but won’t rebel pro-bono.
You cry for Gaza, Congo, Kashmir —
but won’t speak up
when your the corporate cunt of a boss calls you “replaceable.”
You think screaming into the void
is activism.
You think unfollowing genocidal governments
counts as resistance.
But the only thing you’ve resisted
is the responsibility
to be more
than a hollow echo.
You wanted applause, not accountability.
You wanted to sell your soul
without a receipt.
You wanted to bleed
without bruising your brand.
But this world?
It doesn’t pay in pity.
It pays in performance.
And your conscience?
Still hoping to be out of stock someday.
So the next time
you feel the need to scream —
ask yourself:
Is it truth you’re defending?
Or a reputation
you never earned?
Because if your revolution
requires documented evidence to inspire the ones willing to buy out inspiration,
and your principles
come with a return policy —
You’re not a poet.
You’re not a prophet.
You’re just another audacious pimp
for capitalism,
angry your sales pitch didn’t land.
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