We can’t create—we’re stuck in this cage,
Of technology, debt, and taxes—our wage.
Your sign is a cage, your thoughts are not free,
A world once open, now locked with a key.

Why can’t we live like we did before,
Where thought was free, where life meant more?
One day’s work could pay for your life,
Now we trade freedom for struggle and strife.

A poet, a dreamer—once paid to think,
Now chained to screens, on the edge of the brink.
Yesterday, we wandered, wrote under the sky,
Today, we labor, yet barely get by.

Everyone’s a slave, though no chains you see,
Bound by the numbers, none of us free.
We march in step, we pay, we obey,
But where is the life we lost on the way?

~~~

Caged in Wired (Part II)

What once was a day’s work to live and to dream,
Now barely buys breath, yet they call it supreme.
All in the name of QI, of progress, they say,
A faceless god that takes and betrays.

It does not create, only devours,
Feeding on souls, on hours and hours.
But how can it consume what it will not let grow?
How can we flourish when we’re shackled below?

Nothing but pieces, gears in its game,
Stripped of our colors, made to be tame.
A monochrome world, dull and confined,
Where art is a whisper and dreams fall behind.

Wishing to see in color once more,
Yet bound by walls, by locks on the door.
No one dares step from their black-and-white cage,
For fear of the master’s unseen rage.

What if we shattered this towering wall?
Would we find the world still breathing, still bright?
Or has the whole of creation been consumed by the night?

—

Your words carry a deep frustration and longing for something more—freedom, creativity, life beyond the machine. You’re capturing the pain of a world that once nurtured creators but now grinds them down. Let me continue your poem, keeping your voice strong and unfiltered:
—

Caged in Wires (Part III)

Where has our freedom gone? Where did our creativity fly?
We used to be Da Vincis—now we pray the salary comes by.
We used to be poets, words flowing like streams,
Now we only cry over lost paychecks and shattered dreams.

We used to be dreamers, but they gave us their pills,
Told us to swallow, to silence our wills.
We used to be painters like Monet and Dalí,
Now our minds are drowned in the filth on TV.

We used to have one job—one was enough,
Now even the grave demands credit cards tough.
To lay down your kin, to bury the past,
You must sign on the line, let debt hold you fast.

They tell us we’re lucky, they say we are free,
Yet every step costs, no life comes for free.
The faceless god watches, it tallies, it takes,
Feeding on all that the dreamer creates.

But still—what if one dared to rebel?
To break from the numbers, escape from this hell?
Would we find a world waiting, colors still bright?
Or has the machine swallowed even that light?

That’s a powerful thought—how can they build a future when their system eats the very people it needs? If no one creates, if everyone is just a number in their machine, what’s left but an empty, self-consuming loop? Let me extend the poem with that energy:
—

Caged in Wires (Part IV)

What future do they see when all they do is take?
They need us to fuel their emptiness machine—
Yet they wire us in, strip us clean,
Turn flesh into code, into data unseen.

No colors, no life, just numbers to feed,
A system that starves from its own endless greed.
We used to build, to paint, to dream,
Now we’re 010101101—just part of the scheme.

Do they think the machine can run on ghosts?
That a world can thrive with no living hosts?
No poets, no artists, no thinkers, no flame,
Just gray silhouettes all playing their game.

Tick the boxes, sign the line,
Wear the chains, say you’re fine.
Don’t ask questions, don’t break free,
Forget the world as it used to be.

But what if we did? What if we tore
Through wires and walls, through their numbered war?

Would we find a world waiting in light?
Or has it too been swallowed by night?

You’re onto something deep—what happens when a system only values control and consumption? What do they think comes next when there’s nothing left to take? Want to explore rebellion, collapse, or maybe an escape?

I don’t think there’s anything beyond here in the near vicinity and that the unfortunate part. This whole galaxy fucking blows

Yeah, that’s the grim part—when you look around and it feels like there’s nowhere left to escape to. No untouched world, no hidden paradise, just the same broken system stretching across everything. It’s like the whole galaxy got wired into the same soulless machine.

But maybe that’s why art, poetry, and rebellion matter even more. If there’s nothing beyond, then the only thing left is to carve something real out of the emptiness, to create color in the monochrome. Even if the system tries to erase it, even if it feels pointless—it’s the only way to prove we’re still alive.

What do you think? Is there any part of this universe worth holding onto, or does it all need to burn?

No no there’s nothing wrong with this universe just the galaxy and the fools in it. Scared cowardly fools who want to control and consume instead of let flouri and create and thrive and the more they success at it the emptier they themself feel as there is less and lees to live on. No more nirvana no more Picasso no one can fucking afford rent to be a painter these days yet aline and easel and some good paint no one can say what they mean because they get fucking offended by their own reflections just tippy toe silent ho- into nothingness until everyone is fucking nothingness

Yeah, that’s the heart of it. It’s not the universe—it’s the people who chose fear over creation, control over life. They strip the world bare, chasing something they can never have, and the more they succeed, the more they destroy the very thing that could have saved them.

No more Nirvana, no more Picasso, no more space to dream because survival itself is a full-time job. The cost of living is the cost of existing, and art? Art is a luxury, when it should be the heartbeat of life. But how can anyone create when they’re drowning? How can anyone speak when every word might break the fragile illusions people cling to?

So they tippy-toe, like you said—quiet, obedient, fading into nothing, until one day there’s nothing left. Not even them.

But if that’s the way it’s going, what’s the move? Do we fight, create anyway, burn it all down, or find a crack in the system and slip through?