They drip it slow, sweet as honey,
silver-tongue and sugar-laced,
whispering promises in poisoned prose,
sliding shackles around your wrists
and calling it protection.
Corruption doesn’t come in a vial—
No, it comes in power.
In contracts signed with bloodied hands,
in cities built on broken backs,
in rulers who call themselves kings
but are nothing more than parasites,
sipping at the marrow of the masses,
and calling it progress.
They slip their venom into speeches,
lullabies of false salvation,
feeding you lies like communion bread
and watching you swallow without question.
You ever taste it?
That bitterness at the back of your throat,
that knowing ache in your bones,
that truth you keep biting back.
Because it you say it out loud,
they’ll label you a traitor?
They don’t need knives
when they’ve got silence.
They don’t need bullets
when they have fear.
They don’t need chains
when they’ve got a system
that turns you against yourself.
And isn’t that the cruelest trick?
To make you think the rot is in you
when it’s been in them all along.
So tell me—
How do you cure a sickness
that calls itself the cure?
Author’s Note:
To me, this poem was born from a deep frustration with systems that disguise protection as exploitation. It was created from things I’ve seen on the news, in school, and in books. It explores how power manipulates truth, and corruption is often dressed in civility.
Alex Florian Peterson | 14 | Omaha, NE
