I am told this is progress —

a cleaner world, a smarter future,

a moral upgrade disguised as policy.

But my breath smells of taxes,

my wallet feels the weight of their virtue.

They said choice,

but meant compliance.

They said green,

but painted my bills red.

They ration the air with graphs and slogans,

count our carbon like sins on a ledger,

and still ask why the people grow tired.

I am tired of their sermons in spreadsheets,

their prophets in Teslas,

their heat pumps humming the anthem of control.

The man who lit this fire now sells his wisdom abroad,

while we shovel the ashes of his vision at home.

You call it transformation.

I call it confiscation —

of means, of mind, of say.

So here I stand,

half-frozen, half-charged,

fully fed up.

This isn’t rebellion.

This is refusal —

to bow to a future

that forgot to ask

if we wanted to come along.