Brandwashed
Find your soul on aisle three, identity for lease,
slogans tattooed across the flesh with corporate ease.
A shirt that screams “rebel,” sewn in a sweat-soaked cell,
shoes painted in protest, yet walked through private hell.
Freedom now packaged as whatever’s on sale,
purpose a discount, conviction grown stale.
Change your logo with the trending crowd,
protest and purchase, both equally loud.
A revolution processed, all profits pre-cleared,
brand activism sold in a limited run this year.
You wear a cause like a uniform, self-worth in a tee,
reform becomes retail, liberation comes with a fee.
Drink your values, subscribe for care,
every morality measured by what you wear.
The illusion is seamless, a world bought and sold,
no belief too sacred, no courage too bold.
Corporations change flags, society switches stance,
but everything internal is just surface at a glance.
You’re not a person–just product in motion,
a conscience shaped by discounts, purpose by promotion.
A billboard soul parades down digital streets,
awake in appearance, but dead where it meets
the real place inside, where real beliefs start–
but all that’s left is a shopping cart.
You hold your values in a package, wear your protest on your face,
yet the checkout line reveals there’s no substance in this place.
The revolution was delivered, free shipping if you bought enough–
but when the cause changes logos, you’re the one left rough.
You bought the dream, you wore the fight,
you gave your all–but nothing was right.
A life curated by commerce, meaning that can’t be owned,
your soul a barcode, forever loaned.