Look!

They walk the streets
In wigs of wisdom,
In sneakers of sorrow,
Clutch bags of calamity,
And lips red with rage!

They smile sweet—
Yes, sweet like honey on a spearhead!
But inside?
Inside is fire!
A furnace of fractured thoughts—
Cute but psycho,
Fine face, fractured soul!

You see her on TikTok,
Twisting waist, tweeting wild,
Sipping gin like salvation.
Ask her what’s the craziest thing
she’s ever done—
She laughs like a demon tickled:
“I burned his passport
and cooked his SIM card!”

The young men simp and drool—
Their chests empty drums,
Echoing through talking stages,
“Are you a wanted person?”
They laugh.
Fools laugh.
The gods weep.

You, son of my mother,
You toast this woman with words
While her heart hosts hurricanes!
You say:
“She’s deep, mysterious, intense…”
I say:
She is damaged,
A moaning masquerade in makeup,
Bipolar beauty from the borderland of reason.

A customer from hell!
She enters your peace like a python
And coils around your confidence—
You call it love!
I call it lunacy!

And yet
You ask no questions.
You don’t notice—
The lipstick hides lightning bolts,
The lashes shade secrets,
The laughter masks
A mind leaking slowly from the seams.

Ah!
This country, my country—
Where madness walks in Gucci!
Where trauma wears cologne,
Where sorrow sits in SUVs!

These ones need shrines or shrinks!
But who will say it?
Who will tell the Emperor his crown is a cobweb?

We mock the madman naked in the market,
Yet worship the madwoman
advertising her butt crack on Instagram.

We laugh.
But even laughter limps these days.

For here—
Not all minds
Are firing
On all cylinders.

THE MAD MEN IN DESIGNER CHAINS

(For the Sons of Thunder)

Listen—

These men too are cracked calabashes,
Shouting sweet nothings from throats choked with bitterness.
Sleek suits, broken spirits!
Wolves in waistcoats,
He-goats in Havana shirts!

He posts gym selfies by day—
By night he punches his own shadow.
Wears cologne of control,
And belts stitched from old betrayals.
He says,
“I don’t do emotions.”
I say,
He fears the face in the mirror!

He brags:
“I ghosted her first.”
But you see him at midnight,
Texting “You up?” to five different ghosts.
Lonely lion,
Roaring into voids of his own design.

This one calls himself “Alpha.”
Says women are wallets with wigs.
He learned love from memes and misogyny,
From prophets of podcasts
With degrees in delusion!

Another,
Struts into the club
With trauma tucked under his Timberlands.
Buys bottles for boys who don’t know his real name.
He says,
“We outside!”
But inside,
Inside he is twelve and abandoned.

The boy whose mother cried through his childhood,
Now screams at women to obey!
He calls it masculinity.
But it’s mourning with muscles.
It’s grief that’s gymed up,
Pain with protein powder!

He seeks respect,
But all he gives is ruin.
He calls every disagreement “disrespect.”
He calls accountability “attack.”
He calls healing “weakness.”
He calls therapy “for mad men.”
Yet he is madder than the moon!

You will find him in traffic,
Horn louder than his hopes.
You will find him in comment sections,
Angry at women he will never meet.
You will find him in bed,
Scrolling through bodies he cannot touch.
Swiping left on joy.
Swiping right on ruin.

And yet—

He laughs.
They cheer.
The world claps for his chaos.

But I say:

Even thunder needs therapy.
Even a lion must lick his wounds.
Even kings cry when the kingdom sleeps.

Ah, son of my mother,
These men are not well!
They wear their damage like designer chains—
And call it drip.

But the drum knows—
The drum always knows.
It beats louder
For those hiding hurt beneath swagger.

And so—

Tonight we dance not for joy,
But for exorcism.