Is your life
so immaculately unscarred,
so coddled by comfort
you had to counterfeit wounds
just to be heard?
Did the absence of suffering
feel so loud,
you borrowed someone else's silence
and called it art?
Because if you can’t be pitied,
you can’t poetry —
is that it?
You mourn wars you never fought.
Write of hunger
like skipping breakfast
was starvation.
Invoke grief
like it’s a costume
you drape over metaphors
to look profound.
You wear pain
like perfume —
just enough to linger
but never stain.
You don’t write from the wound.
You etch your verse
on borrowed gravestones,
drafting poems on tragedies
you witnessed only in headlines.
You don’t want truth.
You want attention dressed as empathy.
You want applause
for pretending you bled.
You sing of storms
without knowing rain,
romanticize ruin
like it’s a backdrop
for your aesthetic despair.
You perform ache
like it’s theatre,
curate anguish
like museum exhibits —
unfelt, untouched,
just on display.
But some of us
don’t write pain.
We leak it.
Unedited.
Unshared.
Some of us
don’t rhyme trauma.
We survive it
in footnotes and hospital lights.
We don’t need pity
because we never had the luxury
to want it.
So the next time
you carve someone else's scar
into your verse,
ask yourself:
Is that your blood
on the parchment —
or did you steal a corpse
and call it a muse?
Because poetry isn’t pity.
It’s plague.
And you?
You’re just a eulogy
with an affordable internet connection.
Mic dropped. Page closed. Stay dead.
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