Capitalism and Puppetry

There are things I want to say, truths clawing at my throat,
But I can’t. They won’t let me.

I am their puppet,
Dangling on strings I never asked for,
Moving to the rhythm of their greed.

I must play the jester,
Smiling wide for their amusement,
Feeding their hunger for spectacle,
Their insatiable appetite for profit.

Every laugh they force out of me is a coin in their pocket.
Every tear I shed is a show they sell.
My pain is their currency,
And my silence, their greatest investment.

I have no script of my own —
Only lines they’ve written for me,
Only moves they’ve choreographed.

I am not a person in their eyes,
Just a product to be consumed,
A story to exploit,
A body to command.