Marky you scroll. You posture. You curate a life you haven’t lived—
a gallery of borrowed dreams, filtered through envy and desperation.
You sell “freedom,” “abundance,” “vision”—
but your wallet is empty, your eyes are tired, and your soul?
It’s whispering: “This isn’t you.”
And that friend you orbit—the one who owns the game, sets the rules, pulls the strings—
who serves whom, really?
You call him ally. But your obedience smells of devotion.
Your loyalty, of leash.