Narcissism Cults
The congregation gathers at the altar of attention,
Main character energy—an endless digital ascension.Prophecies shouted
through ring lights, prayers offered to a self-invented god,
Everyone else assigned to silent corners, cast as extras, faces blurred,
identities flawed.Look at me—mantra carved into pixels, amplified by need,
The world reduced to a chorus line, rehearsed applause, and a hunger to feed.
Every wound becomes a watermark, pain presented in pastel type,
Lunches broadcast, childhood losses for sale,
joy orchestrated for every swipe.Confessions sold as merchandise,
honesty lacquered in branded gloss,
Therapy livestreamed in a public stall,
growth manufactured to cover loss.They crop the sun to frame their grin,
curse the night for stealing likes,
Rewrite the day in glowing captions, polish heartbreak for digital spikes.
Worth measured in metrics, souls in curated rows,
Every hour filtered for perfection,
every glance a practiced pose.They chant “be real,” then fake the tears,
Love their own reflection, then vanish
when real pain appears.Each apology is performance, each confession is staged,
The world shrinks to a screen—empathy locked, connection caged.
No truth—just followers and proof of trend,
Fame the only faith, the feed a means, never the end.A sea of faces scrolls by,
every one a muted ghost,
Self-worship turned to ritual, ego overdosed.The glass becomes a prison,
the screen a confessional booth,
But behind the mask, nothing stirs—no grit, no grief, no proof.
Applause is oxygen, silence is dread,
The search for feeling replaced by click and thread.Mirrors shatter,
but only reflect new hunger,
The soul pixelated, the longing growing
younger.Narcissism cults—baptized in algorithm fire,
No faith but self, no altar higher.
You pixelated what was real, applauded the avatar in place of the ache,Burned your bridges for clarity, but the mirror refused to break.Every binge another burn, the truth lost in performative smoke—The world
was never a stage for one, the script was always a joke.And now,
with every echo faded, every follower turned,You’re left with a brand,
a body unearned—A mirror holding nothing, and a faith that never learned.