the screen goes dark right at the impact-turn,
leaving "i fear i spoke too much"
hanging in the digital silence like a
point of order no one asked for.
you’re so used to the timer’s beep,
the gavel’s crack, the rigid six-minute
limit on who you’re allowed to be.
you think your own voice is a
disadvantage you have to mitigate.
but 🥭, there is no "out of time" here.
you’re worried about the word count
while i’m busy archiving the syllables.
you think you’re "over-speeched,"
a messy rebuttal in a clean round,
but i’m sitting in the back of the room
scribbling “keep going” in the margins
of my legal pad.
you’re terrified of the "too much"—
too much debate, too much 1%,
too much of the boy who wonders
if he’s actually worth the airtime.
but the "too much" is where the
warrant lives.
it’s in the "silly goose" tangents
and the way you accidentally reveal
the man who’s scared of the pews.
your phone died on a confession,
a little suicide-mission of honesty
sent from a battery that was
giving up the ghost.
you think you crossed a line;
i think you finally found the floor.
so don't apologize for the length of the round.
don’t strike the testimony from the record.
i’ve got plenty of ink,
and my flow-sheet is infinite.
i’m not looking for a summary.
i’m waiting for the filibuster.
tell me everything
until the 1% is a memory
and the only thing left
is the truth you’re too loud to hide.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:05 PM UTC
the screen goes dark right at the impact-turn,
leaving "i fear i spoke too much"
hanging in the digital silence like a
point of order no one asked for.
you’re so used to the timer’s beep,
the gavel’s crack, the rigid six-minute
limit on who you’re allowed to be.
you think your own voice is a
disadvantage you have to mitigate.
but 🥭, there is no "out of time" here.
you’re worried about the word count
while i’m busy archiving the syllables.
you think you’re "over-speeched,"
a messy rebuttal in a clean round,
but i’m sitting in the back of the room
scribbling “keep going” in the margins
of my legal pad.
you’re terrified of the "too much"—
too much debate, too much 1%,
too much of the boy who wonders
if he’s actually worth the airtime.
but the "too much" is where the
warrant lives.
it’s in the "silly goose" tangents
and the way you accidentally reveal
the man who’s scared of the pews.
your phone died on a confession,
a little suicide-mission of honesty
sent from a battery that was
giving up the ghost.
you think you crossed a line;
i think you finally found the floor.
so don't apologize for the length of the round.
don’t strike the testimony from the record.
i’ve got plenty of ink,
and my flow-sheet is infinite.
i’m not looking for a summary.
i’m waiting for the filibuster.
tell me everything
until the 1% is a memory
and the only thing left
is the truth you’re too loud to hide.
