Saturday, 7 June 2025

Conscience On Clearance Sale

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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