The Echo of the Loudest Lie(a poetry in one breath of fire) #poetry

And you, yes you who wears the carefully polished grin that does not reach the eye—spun from the threadbare ideology of thunderous self-certainty, you who thinks truth must be told only when it bends into a shape you like, or votes the way you prefer, or salutes the gods you invented on a napkin of fear during a panel discussion with no questions allowed, you who sat behind podiums and in front of broken teleprompters mumbling aphorisms your interns found on war-stained refrigerator magnets, who claps for the sound of their own voice while the hungry wait, again, for a train that never arrives on Track 9, because the station has been renamed after your grandfather’s dream that no one dreams anymore—I, who once believed you when I was fifteen and full of too much air and too little skin, now watch you from balconies of burnt-out headlines and wonder when you decided to be this god of fog—you, again, who said change is a staircase when it was clearly a trapdoor under a red carpet, who told him, the old man with shaking fingers at the ration shop, that patience was patriotism, and told her, the mother of two sons too poor to serve but too alive to ignore, that loyalty is silence, and then—then, you, who looked me in the eye during the election and promised dignity, delivered dogma and discount dignity instead, making the poor invisible, the sick irrelevant, the farmers decorative, the teachers optional, the forests tradeable, the rivers mythological, and still, he cheered for you, and she posted your quotes in italics with the filters of nostalgia, while you, yes, still you, signed off on the daylight theft of reason in a language no court could challenge because you outlawed the dictionaries before we learned how to conjugate resistance—so now we march, barefoot, in algorithms of ash, whispering your name like a warning, like a recurring headache, like a banned book we keep under our pillows, and still you say we are wrong to not smile while being erased, that disagreement is disloyalty, that logic is elite, that kindness is lazy, and they, who once adored you, who lined up to kiss your ring of algorithmic approval, now look down when your name scrolls across the TV, and pretend they were never sure, never certain, never part of your machinery, but you remember, don’t you, how you let the temples of knowledge become warehouses of propaganda, how you nodded while hate became a job description, how you tweeted platitudes while the night bled outside a hospital with no oxygen and too many cameras, and we, who once thought disagreement was a handshake, now find our voices quivering in fear, in code, in music, in satire, in the gaps between official narratives, and you, he, she, I, we, they—entangled, contradictory, complicit, broken—build bonfires of question marks and stare into the flames waiting for the one moment where someone, anyone, maybe even you, says: "I was wrong,” but of course you won’t, because you never do, because being right is your only religion, and truth was just a ladder you climbed before sawing off the bottom rungs.

The Reverberation of My Rebellion

I
once stitched my tongue
to the slogans on your billboard,
believed that banners could bloom
like trees under the rhetoric sun.

I wore your image on my back
like a saint wears silence—
back when belief
was a currency I could afford.

I clapped when you rose.
I stood when you spoke.
I wept once, even,
when your shadow stretched long enough
to reach my grandmother’s grave.

But your words grew teeth.
They bit the hungry.
They fed on the silent.
They multiplied like unchecked drafts
of an unending speech.

Now,
I sit in the ruins
of my own applause.
Each echo a betrayal.
Each phrase a scar.

You taught me
that truth is elastic
and justice
is a decorative shawl
for winter speeches.

I,
the fool,
embroidered it with my hopes.

But today I refuse.
I refuse to stand
when fear walks in.
I refuse to chant
the anthem of curated amnesia.
I refuse to bend
just to make your mirror smile.

I write instead.
I write with trembling ink
and steadfast spine.
I write the names
you erased from registers
and etched into jails.

I write for the child
who asked why books burn.
I write for the farmer
who vanished into a number.
I write for my own hands—
callused by silence,
hardened by hindsight.

You call this disloyalty.
I call it breath.
You call this rebellion.
I call it remembering.

And if they ask me,
“Who is it you oppose the most?”

I will say:
The one I once believed in.
The one who taught me to speak
then punished my syllables.
The one who called himself leader
but led only himself.

And I?
I now lead my own voice
out of your shadows
into the raw light
of what must be said.

you are the glitch

you wake with static in your teeth
a sermon caught between molars
chewing on headlines
that forgot your name—
you, blueprint of broadcasted certainty,
you, architect of applause loops
that never reach ears,

you walk backwards into the future,
mirrors in both palms,
shouting silence through megaphones
that only echo you—

you cannot bleed truth
because you coded it out,
you cannot cry
because the tear ducts were outsourced,
you cannot lose
because the scoreboard is yours,

but you will rust—
not all at once,
not spectacularly—
you will rust
in whispers,
in typos,
in the yawns of those
who finally stopped listening.

#Poetry #Resistance #DisagreeToExist #Political #TruthVsPower #YouAreTheGlitch #SpokenWord #LyricalDissent #PublicDisillusionment #VoicesOfDefiance