The Flavors of Surrender

This world is an insult
to the human soul—
a slow slap
you must either
refuse
or swallow whole.

Don’t pretend
you don’t feel it—
the quiet disgrace
tucked in the chase.

Every time
you betray your pride—
running for the bus,
your hunger exposed
like a torn coat
in the rain.

Every slammed door,
every sideways glance,
every itch
to peer
where shame
has staked its sign:
KEEP OUT.

You say:
“Fine. I’m here.
I’ll wear this skin,
smile at the script,
play my part.”

Or:
“No—this can’t be it.
I was not made
for this machine
of days.”

But still—
they charge you,
shape you,
shove you down
the tunnel
of your chosen illusion.

Choice?

There is none.

Just two flavors
of surrender.