It’s just a game, right? This life?
Who’s got the controls?
Aren’t we all puppets?
Strings pulled, mouths moving—
Who’s behind the curtain?
Who’s got their hand up our—
…never mind.
We all serve a king.
Elon, Jeff, Mark—
The billionaire boys’ club.
Bow to their throne.
And you?
Whose ring do you kiss?
Is the hand so far up your—so deep,
you don’t even feel it anymore?
So busy barking,
fighting for the “right” side.
But wait—what’s “right”?
Regurgitating soundbites,
someone else’s script.
A parrot on repeat.
That doesn’t make you right.
Damn, they’re good.
Copperfield couldn’t pull this off
Shiny object in one hand—
while the other steals your soul.
Chess pieces on a board,
pawns in their game.
Divide, manipulate,
tell us who to hate,
who to trust,
who to follow.
Where’s the middle?
The ones who won’t play their game?
Who don’t serve a master?
Whispering,
‘Well, ain’t this a fuckery of fakery.’
But whispers don’t trend.
Whispers don’t go viral.
Loud lies?
Now that gets the clicks.
Now that gets the likes.
Women in the middle—
maybe that’s the answer.
The ones waking up mid-game,
Tired of shielding the king,
and mopping the blood.
Women in menopause—
fierce enough to question,
sweaty enough to disrupt,
sleepless enough to see
The game is rigged.
And brave enough
To flip the whole damn board
scatter the pieces—
And start again.
