I wake upon a land I did not choose,

a ground made fertile by erased lives.

No birth of mine agreed to what was done,

no breath approved the theft that shaped this place.

Yet here I stand, compelled to live and eat

inside a world whose frame was raised by force.

This force begins before the first choice forms.

It is the violence of the given world,

the narrowing of paths called “just the way”

The cost of living dressed as moral law.

We bend the rules; we plead; we organize-

The structure does not bend; it answers back.

This land was taken once by open blade,

by treaty signed beneath a loaded gun.

Then bodies dragged in chains across the sea

were worked to death and called an enterprise.

The lesson held: extract, deny, repeat.

The names would change; the engine would not stop.

And now it turns again, in living time.

The knock at dawn, the cage, the screaming child,

expulsion stamped and priced as policy-

this is the terror dressed in lawful clothes.

What once was done to native flesh and bone

is done again, because it still pays well.

Above it sit the hoarders of the gain,

The billionaires whose hunger has no floor.

They squeeze the wage, inflate the daily need,

then blame the poor for failing in the trap.

This market was not built for common good;

it serves the few and disciplines the rest.

And yes, we are ruled by pedophiles.

By men whose crimes dissolve in wealth and rank,

whose violations vanish when revealed,

because the system needs them where they stand.

The child is sacrificed to power’s peace,

and silence is the price of staying safe.

They mock us when we name the stolen ground.

“Then leave,” they say, from houses just as stolen.

They sneer at truth and call it childish guilt,

mistaking cruelty for clever wit.

Their laughter is the sound of moral rot,

A shield against the empathy they lack.

Now lies are sown until the air is thick.

Two people watch one murder in the street;

one names it horror, one calls it deserved.

Belief outruns the evidence of blood.

The mind, split clean along a party line,

protects its tribe by killing what it sees.

This blindness is not innocent or dumb.

It is the wage of comfort and belonging.

To see too much is social suicide;

to doubt the tale is treason to the group.

So force survives by calling itself truth,

and truth is bent to serve the chosen few.

We did not build this house, yet live inside.

We benefit by luck we never earned,

unevenly, but never separate.

The ones crushed most are told to blame themselves,

while naming cause is ridiculed as noise,

and justice waits outside the guarded gate.

I speak because this silence is the lie.

I speak because the pattern is alive.

What once was done is happening again-

by law, by market, by obedient fear.

No future comes from looking away now.

It starts when force is named, and finally faced.