⸻

I’m the loudest silence in a crowded room,

An open secret in a locked costume.

I’m a broke millionaire with expensive doubt,

Screamin’ “help me” with my chest puffed out.

I’m a wise fool with a brain on mute,

Marchin’ barefoot in Italian boots.

I’m a patient sprinter, a passive fight,

With a blunt sharpness and a blinding night.

I’m a real fake — like a wrestling slam,

I’m a pacifist throwin’ hands on cam.

I’m a humble flex, with a massive plan,

Wanna seize the day while I barely stand.

⸻

Life’s a serious joke, it’s funny how we cry when we laugh,

We chase the finish line, just to run it back.

It’s a peaceful riot, a quiet war,

We’re all rich in spirit but broke in the drawer.

So toast to the mess — we’re doin’ just fine,

Dyin’ to live in the nick of time.

Oxymorons on parade —

It’s a beautiful disaster we made.

⸻

I’m an honest liar in a filtered pic,

Givin’ raw truth with a vanity click.

I’m a vegan cannibal — eatin’ my words,

Sippin’ herbal tea while I flip the bird.

I’m a working vacation, a plugged-in ghost,

A cold sweat dream at a lukewarm roast.

I’m freedom’s leash, a prisoner’s flight,

A blind insight with 20/20 hindsight.

I’m a giant speck, an atom bomb,

A still earthquake in a zen-like calm.

I’m a simple mess, a planned mistake,

Givin’ half my all ‘til the whole thing breaks.

⸻

We’re permanent phases.

Living fossils in trend-chasing blazes.

We pay for free time, fight for peace,

Put war on banners that say “Capisce?”

We grow up young and we die too old,

We sell our souls just to feel whole.

And somehow — somehow —

That contradiction makes us bold.

⸻

Life’s a serious joke, it’s funny how we cry when we laugh,

We chase the finish line, just to run it back.

It’s a peaceful riot, a quiet war,

We’re all rich in spirit but broke in the drawer.

So toast to the mess — we’re doin’ just fine,

Dyin’ to live in the nick of time.

Oxymorons on parade —

It’s a beautiful disaster we made.

⸻

I’m a free man stuck in a two-year lease,

Got a choice of cage with designer fleece.

Vote for chains in a different hue,

Call it freedom when they pre-pick two.

I scroll through options they curate tight,

Call it open roads on a scripted flight.

Got a voice that echoes inside a dome,

Think I’m off the grid on a tracked iPhone.

Land of the brave, home of the streamed,

Sold my data for American dreams.

We worship choice like it’s holy ground,

But you’re only free when no one’s around.

I’m clocked in free on a digital leash,

Workin’ from home in a cage with fleece.

Got sweatpants on with a business tie,

Turn the camera off just to cry and lie.

I’m commuting nowhere, still stuck in place,

Burned out chillin’ at a breakneck pace.

Livin’ the dream in a bedroom cell,

With a coffee buzz and a screen-lit hell.

I mute my mic while I scream at fate,

Tellin’ spreadsheets how my soul feels

We’re walking contradictions in designer doubt,

Buyin’ peace of mind while we’re freakin’ out.

We chase that freedom on a leased device,

Livin’ large while we’re shrinkin’ twice.

Got empty pockets full of dreams to spend,

Startin’ over just to meet the end.

So light a match in this flood of fear —

It’s a joke so real, we cheer.

I get the truth piped in with a bias twist,

Same facts dressed up in a left-right list.

One channel cries while the other one cheers,

Both sell fear, just in different veneers.

I’m well-informed and misled too,

A scholar of headlines that ain’t quite true.

“Breaking News” that’s broke for days,

On loop like trauma’s the latest craze.

I binge bad vibes in an info flood,

Sippin’ fake outrage with a clickbait chug.

We’re drowning in facts we can’t verify,

But hey — did you hear who just died?

It’s a rigged game show where the prize is less,

If you work too hard, you just earn more stress.

I make too much for a crumb from the plate,

But not enough to afford this inflated state.

Got a job and debt — what a flex combo,

While my taxes fund TikToks and endless Entenmann’s combos.

They say, “Lift the poor!” while they sink the rest,

Buildin’ castles on the backs of the over-stressed.

Now the grind’s a curse, and the couch is gold,

Why hustle hard when the system folds?

It breeds a class that don’t clock in,

While we foot the bill with a reluctant grin.

So I’ll keep running still,

Stay grounded on the hill,

Write poems that scream,

And whisper my will.

Because maybe… just maybe…

We’re all wrong, right?

And that’s what makes this

Chaos feel just right.