I don’t stage-dive.
I don’t grandstand.
My revolutions
are in my hands—
tattooed under work gloves,
knuckles bearing the print of labor
while the boss talks love
through clenched teeth.
Headphones at full volume.
Clock hits zero—I’m gone.
That “family” at the gate?
I leave it there.
They beg for spotlights,
chase views like coins.
Me? I shift one rule
inside my own skull,
my own shoes.
I tell creeps no
without smiling.
Hold eye contact
till they flinch.
Walk my body home
intact.
That’s a riot—
the kind they can’t touch.
I live loud under the skin,
low on the outside.
No fireworks.
Just a spine that won’t fold.
You won’t catch me on a poster,
but I sleep like I kept my soul.
Friends want chaos,
shots, bad bets.
I drink water,
settle old debts.
Still cuss loud,
still talk raw,
but I won’t bleed
for your applause.
Train home,
headphones on.
Small, intact—
that’s my bomb.
Every quiet no
lays another brick.
Every line I hold
is a risk I take.
You can scream your rage
in a borrowed crowd.
I’ll rewrite my life
without raising my voice.
I love messy,
soft and fierce.
I ask for consent,
still pull, still pierce.
Kink in daylight,
honest sin.
No false purity
on my skin.
I live my weird,
pay my rent.
That’s my anthem,
not your event.
When they tally wins
by views and noise,
I count mine
in stubborn choice.
One quiet life
I won’t quit.