Through The Static
written by: Michael Ridinger
The world chokes on cellophane dreams,
syrup lies oozing from billboard veins,
burgers molded in factory vats,
tasting of rust and yesterday’s greed.
Faces flicker,
not skin but screens,
pixelated grins stolen from dead airwaves,
scrolling confessions no one believes.
Love’s a hashtag,
fleeting as a swipe,
vows that dissolve in the glow of a screen.
Loyalty? A shadow burned in concrete,
etched where promises bled out alone.
Step back.
Breathe the smog of a thousand con jobs.
The city’s a funhouse,
mirrors bending truth into carnival screams,
each laugh a salesman’s pitch,
each light a lie that hums like a busted bulb.
I’m done with the gloss,
the airbrushed tongues spitting rehearsed lines.
Gimme a voice that cracks like dry earth,
hands stained with ink, not polish.
Gimme a soul who’d rather break
than bend to the hum of a corporate hymn.
Picture this:
a diner at 3 a.m.,
coffee bitter as truth,
two strangers spilling scars,
no filters, no scripts,
just words that weigh like stones.
Rip the veil.
Kick through the haze of canned laughter.
I want the pulse of mud and bone,
the howl that splits the night open,
the grip that holds when the world frays.
Give me raw,
give me jagged,
give me alive.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
‘Through the Static’ is a howl against the hollow noise of a world draped in fakeness. In its raw poetic pulse, it craves the real—scarred hands, honest words, and souls that don’t flinch. Written in a flash of late-night fire, it’s for anyone who’s ever hungered for truth in a sea of static.
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