Built by Hunger, Broken by Freedom...

2025-05-14T12:12:00

We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we even shift our colors like autumn leaves battered by cold winds just to feel the warmth of eyes as our hope will linger We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we zip up new faces and press down our real selves like wrinkled shirts in drawers waiting for the moment we can breathe again We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we nod at jokes that don’t land and laugh too hard at small tricks hoping someone thinks we belong without form of question We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we hide the question piling in our chest where real answers struck in our throats like stones we dare not to spit out… We dress our wounds in outfits stitched from someone else’s dream, the jacket itches even the shoes squeeze where the ties chokes a little too tight but none of it matters if they say we look sharp We dress our wounds in outfits stitched from someone else’s dream, the smile in clothes we hate and the shoes we hate stacking approval like coins in a crumbling wallet We dress our wounds in outfits stitched from someone else’s dream, we forget who we were before the brand names and polished mirror reflections stared us down and whispered “not enough” We dress our wounds in outfits stitched from someone else’s dream, we sacrifice comfort on the altar even trading blood for applause we don’t even fully hear but all is forgotten when compliments come… We become prisoners only when we forget our own chins from desire, if we listen carefully past the noise of wanting we can hear the engine behind it all humming low and steady We become prisoners only when we forget our own chins from desire, it is the seed of own hunger that grows into the vines wrapping tight around our throats We become prisoners only when we forget our own chins from desire, it is not their whip but our open palms that make the strike sting as deeply as it does We become prisoners only when we forget our own chins from desire, it is our secret wish for their favor that hands them the pen to rewrite the story of our worth… We stand untouchable when their rewards mean nothing to us, there is a strange magic in wanting nothing, needing nothing, expecting nothing even king and queen of critics shout orders bounce off your skin like harmless echoes We stand untouchable when their rewards mean nothing to us, the dangling prizes lose their glitter like the threats lose their fangs where the world spins on and remain unhooked We stand untouchable when their rewards mean nothing to us, no cage can close on you because you carry no bait in your heart for their traps to catch We stand untouchable when their rewards mean nothing to us, where the greatest armor isn’t anger, isn’t strength, isn’t vengeance but its emptiness where their hooks used to find you… Watchwords: Imagine walking into a room with nothing to win and nothing to lose No faces to please and no ladders to climb no feeling of highs and lows Imagine speaking with no fear or whether they nod or sneer Imagine hearing criticism like rain on a roof-present loud but powerless to our soul beneath

Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, *“Who am I?”..*

As and will always be reminding you to dream: *“As you are still the Master of your destiny and the maker of your dreams…”*

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