the files

the files

america with lipstick on a skull,
america, with champagne bubbles rising
over a basement of screams
nobody wants to hear.

the files,
paper like confession,
ink like blood,
names like ghosts in suits
walking free under courthouse sunlight

and it’s always the same old story—
money laundering the soul,
power scrubbing the fingerprints clean,
the machine humming soft hymns
to itself,
telling you it’s all handled,
telling you don’t look,
don’t ask,
don’t feel.

but it’s disgusting, man,
the way evil wears a tailored jacket
and shakes hands
and smiles for cameras
like nothing happened,
like innocence is just another currency
to spend.

and the people-
oh the people-
half asleep, half hypnotized,
scrolling past horror
like it’s weather,
like it’s normal
for monsters to sit at the table
and call themselves elite.

i want to scream down the highway,
i want to spit truth into the neon night-
that the world doesn’t belong
to the predators,
it belongs to the tender,
to the kids,
to the ones who still believe
love is supposed to mean something.

burn the silence.
not the world-
the silence.