broccoli fades

I’m calling the cosplay gangsters, props in a play, Broccoli fades, fanny packs, TikTok parade. Tight denim compressing courage, posture all staged, Posing with metals you’d drop if the moment got real. Inherited safety nets masquerade as grit, Trust-fund turbulence calling it “struggle,” a skit. You swing with a camera, not knuckles or heart, Wi-Fi warriors freezing when distances part. Algorithm applause got you drunk on delusion, Validation by likes ain’t a measure of human. I speak with a lexicon sharpened by winters, You mumble in captions, emojis and filters. Privilege padded your falls, call it resilience? Nah. Try earning your scars without parents’ assistance. I execute verses precise, not a threat—an erasure, Of fake bravado and clout-chasing, hollow behavior. Execution—no filter, I dissect illusion, Clicks don’t equate to conviction or fusion. Execution—your clout is a costume, Timeline tough till reality looms. You flex rental aggression, returned by tomorrow, Borrowed demeanor, no spine in the marrow. Raised on comfort, now you cosplay the struggle, Soft hands shaking when consequences huddle. Your idols are pixels, your morals are rented, Outrage for optics, accountability—absent. You preach about war from a couch with a charger, I learned in the trenches where pressure gets sharper. No discipline forged, just entitlement dressed, Calling laziness “genius,” calling excess a flex. You brandish a weapon for likes and a reel, But panic and flight when a threat becomes real. The era’s diluted—integrity’s scarce, Noise over knowledge, image over care. I execute culture, expose the masquerade, This isn’t hate—it’s a sentence on frauds getting laid.