they said it was a web,
but some spiders own the silk,
the air,
the trapped wings,
the very right to speak.

they said it was a town square,
but the streets are private property,
the benches charge by the minute,
and every word you whisper
is stored in a vault
owned by a landlord
you will never meet.

i tried to raise a flag.
they called it code violation.
i tried to sing a truth.
the algorithm unmade my mouth.

this is not a frontier.
it is a farm.
we are not users.
we are the crop.

your voice is not your own here,
it is a product,
a data-point,
a conditional gift
that can be taken back
with one click
by a moderator
in another hemisphere
working for a wage
you’d weep to earn.

they own the wires,
the waves,
the words,
the attention,
the anger,
the love you feel
for a stranger’s pixel-face.

they own the silence,
too,
the elegant,
enforced quiet
after they evict you.

what grows in this soil?
what thrives in this light?
only what they planted.
only what can be sold.

the internet is owned by
the one percent.
the rest of us just live here,
until the lease runs out.