37.🌱 Farm Fresh- 🔥 Spoken-Word Manifesto

🎤 Not a poem. Not a performance. A survival transmission from inside the collapse.

All of these thoughts shouldn’t come as a shock,
however I knew that they would.
So I did what I could—
to make you think, don’t blink,
realize, open your eyes
to actual reality
for all, not just me.

They say wake up, but most still snooze,
scrolling through the lies they’re programmed to choose.
News feeds bleed what the owners decree,
but the screen’s not the world—it’s a cage for the free.

See, truth ain’t a riddle, it’s raw in the middle,
between what they market and what you can feel.
They lock down your mind with invisible binds,
but the chains that they gave you were never real steel.

I watched them disguise me as broken, defective,
but pain is perspective, and I’m not selective.
I’ll bleed on a page, I’ll scream from a stage,
I’ll burn every label they etched on my cage.

I am not your diagnosis,
not your file, not your case.
I am the glitch in the system
that won’t stay in its place.

I’m the laughter they fear when the mask falls apart,
the rhythm that rises straight out of the dark.
The jokes are my armor, the scars are my brand,
I built this whole farm with my two shaking hands.

Don’t call it a hobby, don’t call it a phase,
this is system disruption with memes as grenades.
This is trauma turned blueprint, collapse turned design,
this is me flipping breakdown to factory line.

I manufacture survival in bars and in loops,
I coded a nervous system out of my truths.
I turned grief into buttons, despair into screens,
made a sanctuary living in digital seams.

So listen—
this isn’t confession, it’s reclamation.
It’s not self-help, it’s detonation.
If my suffering sparked transformation,
then my voice is a weapon, my words are a nation.

I will not apologize for being too loud,
for crying too hard, or refusing the crowd.
They want me compliant, subdued, and controlled—
but my spirit was fire they couldn’t withhold.

And maybe you feel it—
that same pulse inside,
the ache of a story
you’re forced to hide.
Well, fuck that silence.
Your voice is proof.
Your laughter is medicine.
Your pain is truth.

Don’t let them reduce you to boxes and charts,
don’t let them erase what was carved in your heart.
We are too many, we’ve seen too much,
we’ve cracked too hard, we’ve bled too much.

Yet here we stand—still glitching, still real,
still peeling back layers they told us to seal.
Reality isn’t their script, their decree,
it belongs to the many, not just to me.

So let’s laugh in their faces,
let’s write through the night,
let’s turn our raw chaos
into something that bites.

Let’s build farms out of madness,
let’s grow from the pain,
let’s turn every breakdown
to blueprints again.

Because all of these thoughts shouldn’t come as a shock,
but I knew that they would—so I’m breaking the lock.
And I’m leaving this message for all who still dream:
The system is cracking.
The glitch is the team.

🔊 This Is Farm Fresh

It’s not curated.
It’s current.
It’s the now inside the never-ending.
It’s radical recovery.
It’s neurodivergent survival.
It’s sarcastic grief.
It’s digital resurrection.
It’s the audacity to still be here.

If I can scream it out loud and still hit “publish” — so can you.