Words' Worth

I find it hilarious —

how a scattered bunch of passive aggressive privileged pieces of shit,

mounted on their high horses bred in incestuous syllables,

ride through literary circles like colonial ghosts

haunting the idea of language.

Oblivious to the world below,

they pen their myopic musings

as if the world were a parchment map

etched on the walls of their wine-stained drawing rooms.

They speak of craft

like it’s a crystal chandelier,

not a weapon forged in revolution.

They wear grammar like a Gucci scarf,

hang metaphors like Picasso miniatures,

and reduce language to the aesthetics of sound

while amputating its purpose.

Language was not born to be pretty.

It was born screaming —

in the birth canals of protest,

in the unsophisticated howls of the oppressed,

in the whispered survival slogans of those

who were never handed a stage.

Language was born brown, barefoot, and bleeding —

not sipping lattes with the literati.

And yet, these dumbfucks —

snorting thesauruses and shitting out words like they were pearls of wisdom —

look down upon profanity

like it’s an infection on their manicured tongues.

They clench their butt-cheeks at a well-placed “fuck,”

because their truth needs to be aesthetic

to be heard.

To them, profanity is poor taste.

To me, it’s punctuation.

To them, rage is inelegant.

To me, it’s syntax carved in scars.

They forget —

language isn’t their dead grandfather’s

illegally hoarded property.

It isn’t something passed down in colonized classrooms

or inherited through second-hand sophistication.

Language doesn’t belong to the sanitized.

It belongs to the soiled.

And these deluded fucks —

the self-declared pundits of poetics —

keep reclaiming their imaginary superiority

like scavengers of a carcass they didn’t kill.

They worship punctuation like it’s scripture,

and treat rhythm like a caste system.

But me?

I’m not here to sip your chamomile delusions

served in bone china built from broken spines.

I don’t want medals forged in the furnace

of incestuous flattery and literary inbreeding.

Keep your ritualistic orgies of self-congratulation to your selves

where gatekeepers dress as gods

and call it discourse.

Your applause?

It’s pointless limerick

echoing in halls so hollow

even truth starves to death.

I’m the Dalit of Words.

I clean your mess.

I break the bones of your structure

and build my truth from the marrow.

I pick up the slang, the slur, the scar —

and make verses out of violence.

You wanted polished poems?

Here, take my middle finger —

freshly brewed in the sewer of your discarded dialects.

Because somebody's gotta do the cleaning.

Somebody’s gotta shout in the silence

you so tastefully ignore.

Somebody’s gotta unclog the ink

you choke with entitlement and exile.

So no, I won’t write your kind of poetry.

I’ll write the kind that stinks of struggle,

bleeds on the page,

and dares to speak

in a tongue you tried to silence.

I write not to be remembered.

I write so that forgetting

is no longer an option.