All That We Are––A Poem

Introduction: A Poem for the Hypocrites (Like Me)

Tired of poets who pretend they’re above it all? Me too.
This poem is for those of us tangled in the contradictions of modern life — spiritual seekers addicted to Instagram, anti-capitalists launching personal brands, nature lovers filming sunsets for clout. You know. Hypocrites. Human ones.

I wrote this poem while thinking about the narcissism economy, the commodification of “authenticity,” and the way we filter ourselves into palatable little products — all while pretending we don’t care about being seen.

If you’re searching for:

• Poets who don’t do social media fakery
• Writing that questions influencer culture without becoming smug
• Voices from the decentralized web
• Non-hypocritical poetry (if such a thing exists)
  ...then you’ve found one who’s at least self-aware.

This poem isn’t a performance. It’s a confession.
Because I can mock the man selling “soul healing” modules —
but I can also see the boy beneath the mask.

All That We Are

I’ve been thinking about all that we are in this modern world. Then I thought to write a poem about the poisonous pot of social media, narcissism, and not being present in nature while recording myself not being present in nature for social media.

Because we are a species of contradictions.

A tangle of desires and denials

We say one thing, do another.

Preach humility, crave recognition

We ache for authenticity,

then filter ourselves into brands.

We sell self-love in neatly packaged courses

taught by those who only love their reflection.

Like the shoeless, bright-teethed white guy

with tribal tattoos, who’s all like

“I’ll help you unlock your authentic self

with this with a twelve-step module for $499”

I can mock.

But when I think of him as a boy with a dad

who yelled, “You’re a worthless shit”

I cannot.

Narcissism—capitalism’s bottomless resource,

supplied by loneliness, demanded by egos.

They say, “Be yourself.”

But which self?

The one shaped by love? Culture? Trauma? Fear?

We are not singular,

we are multitudes, opposing forces

warring beneath our skin.

We pretend at certainty, purity

We demand an answer where none exists.

Like the woman who says, “We’ll explore the answer

with your birth chart,”

I can mock.

But when I think of the woman grasping

at her last bit of hope

I cannot.

To be human is to hold paradox

To know that the good and the bad

are woven together

That the demons can possess

But only if you can’t confess they’re there.

But what is the point in me saying all this?

We chase meaning in a world that owes us none.

We break ourselves against illusions,

then blame the glass.

We romanticize the escape.

An “of-the-grid-sustainable life”

that could never sustain all humans.

Civilization, for all its sins, is where

diversity plays.

But again, what’s the point in me saying all this

as I walk through what I should be part of.

Somewhere in that silence is all that we are.

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