To Be Damned
the lies of capitalism.
I am who I am, simply put. But I cannot deny that my identity exists in layers, inside a complex figure that is reality. Trapped, I am; trapped, I am, like a fly glued to a birdâs nest. Crafted by a system of scarcity, nothing can make sense of the torment that exists in oneâs mind. Bowing down to green trees, as if itâs god. Our flesh derives from the beauty of earth, it deserves no limitations. We all are, Indeed, in a hell that is complex in the most simplest way. They want us to hate oursleves, hate what we are, and loathe what exists inside our world. All whilst marketing our identities, weâre the gold in their treasure box. They need us, but theyâre monsters, they feed us slop like weâre experiments. Poision masked by dopamine hits that wear down our temples, as if weâre not blessings from the divine. Then they tell us that weâre sick creatures that need to be fixed. But they destroyed us. How dare they?
 We all are, simply put. But we cannot deny that our identities are made out of cardboard boxes, cut to be workers. We throw protests, we deny their power,and yet we grapple to their feet. Funny is we. They want us caged, because they teach us that freedom is death. To not be accepted is to not be at all, so we walk a loop of shame and suffering. Shamed and blamed for becoming what they molded us to be. Theyâre clever, are they? All-knowing, sat on a throne built by our sacrifices. Sacrfcies made to fit into lives that are not meant for us. Technology, inventions masked as advancement that hinder us from the ground we derived. Pain and pleasure, now existing on the same spectrum. How could we say no when our dopamine levels are worn out by fast-paced lives and pressure that could crush a stone?Â
Lonesome am I, existing in a world that does not cater to me. Iâm aware, aware of my awareness in a way that is profound. In a way that breaks the system, yet I have my doubts when questioning it. Part of me wants to keep pushing through this hell, and accept my being as a sick worker. The fear I feel, the fear that is driven by taught scarcity. My mother, her hard life, would it reflect on mine? It is to want better, but will societyâs version of betterment ever appease to me? My feet, worn into the ground at the ripe age of sixteen. My body is worn from the back and forth work and school nights. But I need this. Because how could I live without it? That is hell, that is to be damned. Working for material that should be given to me, given to us simply because itâs here for us to have. But we must bow down to it, bow down to the green tree.Â
Yet, through fear, I choose to be free. I choose to die in the hands of my own demise, no longer trapped like a withered fly. I choose to bloom into a forever, ongoing peace. Because who I am is not who Iâve been molded to be. I am, simply put, I am. But my complexity does not exist inside of a treasure box. My soul is too deep to not be set free.Â
-- JJ


















