They said the world’s cracked—
nah, it’s custom-cut.
Blueprints of chaos, profit in the rut.
Not a glitch in the code,
it’s a velvet scam,
built to keep you polite while they tighten the jam.
Schools herd sheep with a bell-ring beat,
boss clocks bark, algorithms eat.
“Freedom of speech”?
Sure—if it sells,
if it fits in the feed where the sponsor dwells.
I tried their tidy, bless-your-heart route:
laptop stuffed, every thought locked out.
Color tabs, planners, polite little lines,
a muzzle disguised as “boundaries” and “signs.”
But life leaked through like goat tracks in snow,
kicked my files, said, let the chaos go.
My neurons went rogue, FLA took a bow,
and the cage I built just melted somehow.
Now my words are crowbars, my laugh a hack,
I plant truth-bomb seeds in their algorithm cracks.
Every rhyme’s a jailbreak, every pun a pry,
I’m the glitch they can’t patch, the bug that won’t die.
Speech isn’t free—it’s a meter that ticks,
fear is the coin, and silence the fix.
They want control? Cute.
I torched that key.
The whirld’s secret password? Not for me.
So here’s my final, feral scroll:
I’m the storm, the spill, the out-of-role.
No leash, no filter, no corporate soul—
I am finally, completely out of control—
and I like it.
🔊 This Is Farm Fresh
It’s raw, unedited—never staged.
It’s the spark that laughs when the cage is gauged.
It’s the now inside the never-ending show,
Radical recovery with a neon glow.
It’s neurodivergent survival, sharp and alive,
Sarcastic grief that still dares to thrive.
It’s digital resurrection, code turned flame,
The audacity to be here and own my name.
Farm Fresh forever—unfiltered, untamed.
If I can scream it out loud and still hit “publish” — so can you.