Your phone is my Camera on buses, in stores, on the streets,
Every step tracked, no place to retreat from you all.
Our privacy given away to tech, no fight no question
yet you like the fool you are push my video camera from your space
telling me I have no right to film you face to face.
You sold our souls for the convenience of now,
But what’s left of us? Where’d we go, and how?
We Serfs in polos, the white-collar star bucks ******,
Spoiled and arrogant, we’ve all been scammed.
Cell phones killed the magic its gone, the mystery slain,
All answers in pixels, no room for your tiny underused brain.
Spoiled, pampered, entitled, and mentally neutered by the over-processed, corporate-approved content that’s spoon-fed through algorithms, YouTube, and Facebook clones of clowns social media vampires soulless and genderless. They’re stuck in an adult-sized version of what should have been childhood Disney lessons, but all those lessons are blurred and neutered into sheeple mediocrity. Coddled, wrapped in mommies ouch free band aides and tear free shampoo. Constantly bought and sold and always told their feelings are the center of the universe, and now they’re the ones mindlessly chanting “Team One Direction” and “Big Time Rush Forever.” The same kids who were never " bullied", never pushed to confront anything challenging, or forced to step outside their comfort zones. Phone out , click take that ***** picture, then run and tell and post all the " bad men " from a one sided fairy tale mirror. Everything curated, everything moderated, safe from the harshness of life, only to grow into adults who are still trapped in the glow of their ‘safe spaces,’ feeding on pre-packaged, consumer-friendly fluff. Making office life unbearable for real men and even worse voting and making laws. Still can't sleep without a night light. As the prison door slams again, another unwanted pregnancy.
All our faces are known, in an instant, they’re there,
A snapshot, a database, no secrets to spare.
The world’s all exposed, no corner too dark,
We film every moment, every spark.
In an instant you have my address, my job
and all the rest. Stalker fantasy
psychotic and legal and plain to see.
A Karen’s outburst, a cop gone wrong,
We post it, we share it, we sing it in song.
No mystery left, no quiet refrain,
Just constant noise, the endless campaign.
We’re all content now, our worth measured in likes,
Trapped in the web, shackled by swipes.
Participation trophies, and the sanitized comfort of never feeling a real blow. The ones who grew up on Disney-fied lessons, where nothing’s too hard, nothing’s too real—just bright, happy images, perfect for minds that were never asked to do anything for themselves. Diary of A Wimpy kid poster children. Glamorized and loving it. Bedazzled soccer mom minivan Blaring Brittany.
The same people who never learned to think for themselves now telling you what to think and giving YOU the life time ban. Because the world around them was designed to stop them from ever having to try to cry or question why. When everything’s curated by the Google and Chat GPT A.I., when the world fits into a neat little echo chamber of controlled opinions, there’s no room for independent thought, no need to fight for your identity. Who are you anyway ? It doesn't matter. Go do your project in a group as A group.
No wonder they’re all so eager to cry and tattle like the sissies they are all overweight tools, easily satisfied with plastic idols, mindless likes, and a world that offers everything delivered to their doors on an Amazon Jeff Bezos ***** rocket silver platter. It’s the loudest, most vapid echo of a monetary , greed society that’s already prostituted itself. Toddlers in Tiaras . Cash me outside.
Her mer gerd.
From " Friends " to Highschool Musical.
Trump truly is what you deserve.
