This world—
it’s nearly broken us.
We hang by a thread.
Quiet desperations—
left to fray, left to die.
Profit over people.
Say it. Let it taste like iron,
Profit over people.
Calcutta’s children—hungry.
Other cities, other streets—hungry.
Banks sign papers, fold their hands,
refuse to feel the weight.
We have more than ever.
More bounty, more progress, more money.
And yet it sits—locked, guarded, counting itself.
Money worshipped like a god.
Tons of food rot.
Tons of goods burned.
Because giving it away would break the ledger.
Listen: profit has become the thing it was meant to serve.
Now profit serves itself.
Power to profit.
Profit for profit.
We used to be the purpose.
Now we are the cost.
