I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could touch,
I mean marrow-tired. Soul-sick.
Like I’ve been screaming at walls
that were never meant to hear me,
only hold me in and mock me.
I watch the country gnaw itself to bone
while paper kings in thousand-dollar ties
sell truth by the gram
and war by the barrel.
There are flags on coffins,
hashtags on grief,
and filters on faces too scared
to show the cracks beneath.
The people have turned to teams,
red hats, blue waves,
fists clenched around identity
like it’s a weapon to survive the day.
But no one’s listening.
Just shouting louder in echo chambers
built by men who learned to profit from silence.
I’m tired of scrolling through manufactured lives,
where every grin is an ad,
every tear a performance,
every post a prayer to algorithms
that demand our attention,
then sell it to the highest bidder.
Tired of the news
that isn’t news,
just fear in fancy font,
a script rehearsed
by actors paid in outrage and ratings.
And beneath it all,
the quiet wars we wage alone:
Anxiety like barbed wire under the skin,
Depression curled in the corners of every room.
We medicate, meditate,
disassociate,
and wonder why we still feel hollow.
I don’t want unity like they market it,
some glitter-wrapped lie
where everyone smiles the same.
I want the kind of truth that scorches.
The kind that peels back illusion
like rot from fruit,
reveals the maggots we fed without knowing.
I want to scream until the stars hear me.
I want to tear down the golden idols
we carved from greed and call it legacy.
I want to see the empire fall,
not in flames,
but in awakening.
Because this country,
my country,
was not born from comfort.
It was carved by the calloused hands of rebels
who dared to dream louder
than the fear that held them.
So maybe I’m not just tired.
Maybe I’m done.
And maybe that’s where the fire starts.
Not with banners,
not with bombs,
but with one soul saying,
No more.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 11:15 AM UTC
I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could touch,
I mean marrow-tired. Soul-sick.
Like I’ve been screaming at walls
that were never meant to hear me,
only hold me in and mock me.
I watch the country gnaw itself to bone
while paper kings in thousand-dollar ties
sell truth by the gram
and war by the barrel.
There are flags on coffins,
hashtags on grief,
and filters on faces too scared
to show the cracks beneath.
The people have turned to teams,
red hats, blue waves,
fists clenched around identity
like it’s a weapon to survive the day.
But no one’s listening.
Just shouting louder in echo chambers
built by men who learned to profit from silence.
I’m tired of scrolling through manufactured lives,
where every grin is an ad,
every tear a performance,
every post a prayer to algorithms
that demand our attention,
then sell it to the highest bidder.
Tired of the news
that isn’t news,
just fear in fancy font,
a script rehearsed
by actors paid in outrage and ratings.
And beneath it all,
the quiet wars we wage alone:
Anxiety like barbed wire under the skin,
Depression curled in the corners of every room.
We medicate, meditate,
disassociate,
and wonder why we still feel hollow.
I don’t want unity like they market it,
some glitter-wrapped lie
where everyone smiles the same.
I want the kind of truth that scorches.
The kind that peels back illusion
like rot from fruit,
reveals the maggots we fed without knowing.
I want to scream until the stars hear me.
I want to tear down the golden idols
we carved from greed and call it legacy.
I want to see the empire fall,
not in flames,
but in awakening.
Because this country,
my country,
was not born from comfort.
It was carved by the calloused hands of rebels
who dared to dream louder
than the fear that held them.
So maybe I’m not just tired.
Maybe I’m done.
And maybe that’s where the fire starts.
Not with banners,
not with bombs,
but with one soul saying,
No more.
I'm throwing punches at the air in anger at what we've become.
