Dissent is not Depth

They call her a voice of brown pain,
But we’ve heard louder cries,
from fields soaked in sacrifice,
from mothers who buried sons, not metaphors.

They sold us short,
for lowercase lines
and over-capitalized lies—
as if formatting could mask
the absence of truth.

She speaks of lands she never walked,
names wounds she never bore,
calls for borders to be broken
from the safety of her suburban floor.

She quotes our grief
like it’s currency,
but forgets—
grief without context
is just performance.

Her poems ride hashtags,
but ours are etched
on stone, soil, memory,
on the backs of farmers
who lived poetry in blood and bone.

To the youth of this land:
do not mistake applause abroad
for alignment with your soul.
Not every accent that praises your pain
wants to see you whole.

She does not speak for us.
She never has.
Her pen drips distance,
her metaphors, misfire.

Let her have her stages,
her paperback revolutions.
We will have our roots,
our truth,
and our nation.

**Note: This poem is an attempt at showcasing the true face of  a "viral" so called "insta-poet" who lacks any poetic knowledge. I also noticed them being extremely ignorant to diversities and systems of other nations and pain of their people. Unfortunately, majority of this poet's followers do not know about their hypocrisy and true intentions. ** 

**Seeing this site being inactive is saddening with last 3 poems being mine. If anyone is offended by my frequent posting here, or feels bored and discouraged, let me know.**