the iphone you paid for with your father's credit card don't impress me. the Reeboks your uncle got you on your 20th birthday don't impress me. Your stupid starbucks hashtag, your Honda Civic, your fucking zara gucci bling bling don't impress me. tell me about the night when you stayed back at work, after everyone left, working on that one project that would get you that payraise. Tell me about the dark circles from not getting enough sleep, the fatigue, your skull splitting open from the core.. but you keep on pushing coz you have to get that new smartphone for your mother's birthday. Tell me about working through saturdays and the better part of sundays, coz before you left home, you promised your disapproving brute of a father that it's not his damn money that you want, if he wishes to buy your self respect. tell me about your hunger, your ambitions, your rebellious zeal to punch life in the face every time you are brought down to you knees. but most importantly, tell me about your struggle, what you're actually doing about it. other than that, you're just another privileged brat with hashtag hustle on your bio without the slightest fucking credibility to even pay your own phone bill.
