they told me
the dream was a white picket fence,
a careful lawn,
a calibrated sense
of more.
i checked the box.
i took the loan.
i learned to want things i already own.

the dream is not a thing,
it is a vibration,
a frequency tuned to the buzz of a nation
that confuses having value with being bought.
a hunger passed off as a higher thought.

my rebellion?
to want something they can’t sell.
a quiet mind.
a way to unbelieve the spell.
but even that desire feels like a product now,
“minimalist living!”
on a curated bough.

i am a machiavelli of the void,
a strategist they haven’t yet employed.
my kingdom?
a thought they can’t commodify.
my power?
a question they can’t simplify.

why must i learn to play their game so well
just to show the game is a living hell?
to break the stick,
you must first hold the stick.
to name the sickness,
you must learn the trick.

the real american dream is the one unseen;
not the wanting;
but the space between
what they promise and what we truly need;
a different kind of hunger,
a better breed
of seed.

i dream now of a dream beyond the display,
where agency isn’t a thing you pay
for with your time,
your soul,
your compliance.
where power isn’t just elegant violence.

i dream of
a forest where the chimps
lay down their sticks,
and the carrots grow wild,
for whomsoever picks.