London

I’m walking through the center where every inch is owned, From the high-street chains to the park bench zones. Even the river is just a backdrop for a luxury flat, While I’m reading the faces of people where they’re at. Everyone’s got that look, that 9-to-5 stare, Like they’re breathing in static instead of the air. In every notification and every stressed-out tweet, In every kid’s "I’m hungry" on a cold city street, I hear the sound of the invisible chains we wear, The "mind-forged manacles" of a world that doesn’t care. It’s the pressure to perform, the debt in our heads, The feeling of being "owned" before we’re out of our beds. I see the gig-economy workers, just trying to survive, While the "clean" office blocks barely feel alive. The corporate windows are shiny and tall, But there’s a cost for that glitter that’s hidden from us all. The people in charge are just chasing the "likes," While the real world is out here going on strikes. But here’s the thing that’ll really mess with your head, When you’re scrolling through your feed before you go to bed. I hear the young influencers selling a lie, While the actual teenagers are just wondering why. Everything is monetized, even the way that we feel, Turning love and connection into a business deal. It’s a cycle of burnout, from the apps to the street, Where the wedding post and the funeral meet.