They taught us to whisper in slogans and script,
Tongues trained in verses, shackled and whipped.
Our laughter is canned, our silence curated,
Each thought pre-approved, instincts numb and sedated.

The dreams that we wear were stitched in their mills,
Branded and sleek, with synthetic thrills.
The lessons we learn are rehearsed in their school—
We hunger for truth, but choke down their gruel.

Yet sometimes at dusk, in the lull between songs,
A glimmer persists where the lost spirit longs.
It flickers—a question not stamped for inspection,
A marrow-deep wish for a different direction.

Still we sip on delusion, aged quiet and dry,
Sold as free will in a marketplace lie.
We nod through the circus, applaud on cue,
While plotting escape we’ll never pursue.

The puppets revolt in choreographed rage,
Streamed in high definition, marching onstage.
They sell us our chains: a lifestyle, a brand—
And crown us kings of a cage we don’t understand.

Rebellion’s a myth we sell to the meek,
Packaged and priced for the comfortably weak.
Revolvers of dogma dressed up for salute,
Boots marching in circles, a facade of dispute.

They’ll hand you a mask and call it a face,
Let you howl your dissent through the comforts of space.
But no one escapes when they’re wired to believe
That surrender’s a virtue, and truth must deceive.

So here I remain with a smirk and a script,
The ash of ambition entombed in a crypt.
There’s comfort in knowing the bars are a choice—
Much harder to listen to freedom’s dead voice.