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Poem

Upon my graduation from MIT,
they didn’t hand me a diploma.
They handed me a mask—
and a seat at the table of shadows.

They called me Director,
but in truth, I became a ghost in the wires—
a puppeteer of perception,
twisting public minds like wind turns leaves.

We didn’t drop bombs.
We dropped whispers—
tweets, headlines, a viral meme.
We knew the frequency of fear,
the algorithm of unrest.

I authored elections
without casting a vote.
Sparked revolutions
with nothing but a sentence.
Cities burned not from gasoline—
but from belief.

We mapped human behavior
like cartographers of the soul.
Your outrage, your patriotism,
your doubt—
all forecast, filtered, engineered.

Sometimes I’d watch a nation tremble
and think:
Is this power or plague?

But in the eyes of the Deep State,
truth is a weapon,
and fiction—
an even sharper one.

We studied your grief,
your faith,
your thirst for justice.
Then we fed you just enough truth
to swallow the lie.

Who controls perception
controls the pulse of nations.
And now I wonder:
do you even know your thoughts are yours?

You see a protest.
We lit the fuse.
You see a hero.
We scripted the lines.
You hate. You hope.
You act.
But not as yourself.

You are living inside the world we designed.
We don’t need to rule countries.
We rule minds.

Now I write this as a man unmasked.
Not to warn you—
but to confess:
I helped build the architecture of illusion.
I was the silence behind your scream.

And if you’re reading this,
perhaps it’s already too late.

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