What Is My Timeline Telling Me?
A middle finger greets my eyes,
in neon lights and vulgar guise.
A song called Peligrosa blares,
with beats that mock what silence bears.
Is this the world they want me in—
all noise, no depth, just plastic sin?
They feed me sass with every scroll,
but none of it dares touch my soul.
“Be dangerous,” they seem to shout,
“Forget your roots, just dance it out.”
But I’m not here for empty flair,
my history burns, it breathes, it stares.
Why this rage in pixel form?
Why these idols without storm?
Is my resistance what they fear?
So they drown it out with what’s loud and clear?
My YouTube screams with neon lies,
while I seek truth they don't televise.
So go on, flip your finger high—
you'll never pixelate my sky.