If you’ve got nothing new to say,
shut the fuck up.
Stop pretending pain is rare.
Stop acting like sadness makes you sacred.
You picked up a pen,
dressed your wounds in filters,
and called it art.
But that’s not truth —
that’s performance.
And you’re not honest —
you’re just well-lit.
You’re not expressing.
You’re recycling.
You’re flogging dead metaphors
for cheap dopamine
and manufactured sympathy.
You’re all singing
the same fucking song —
a hundred different ways,
with a hundred different faces.
The faces change.
The grammar upgrades.
The rhythm sometimes snaps.
But the content?
Still the same three-chord misery
looped into infinity.
Same heartbreak.
Same daddy issues.
Same copy-paste grief
you keep performing
like trauma’s a brand endorsement.
You say “I found my voice”
but somehow,
it sounds like everyone else’s.
You pick up heartbreak
and sell it like fast food.
You pick up darkness
and sell it like halogen lights.
You pick up parenthood
and sell it like religion.
You pick up self-love
and sell delusion.
You pick up patriarchy
and sell misdirected hatred for men.
You pick up feminism
and sell candy floss and rainbows
to the same girls who still ask permission
to wear rage in public.
How long will you keep selling lies
when your only job
was to speak the truth—
even if it breaks
every bone in your body
one poem at a time?
How long will you pimp hope
like it’s a pharmaceutical,
peddling “light at the end of the tunnel”
just so the broken romantics
can keep dreaming?
Isn’t that false advertising?
Because if lying to fuck someone
is a crime,
how is lying about life
to sedate strangers
and keep them hooked
any less abusive?
You're not a poet
and that's not poetry.
You're a narcotic peddler
specialising in synthetic adrenaline.
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