The greatest trick this devil ever pulled
wasn’t smoke, wasn’t mirrors—
it was the algorithm.

It was teaching you to doubt your own pulse.
Convincing you the fire alarm is just
background noise.
Convincing you the cage is a corner office
with a flattering filter.

Perception becomes policy.
Policy becomes posture.
Posture becomes prayer.

And suddenly
up is a rumor,
down is a conspiracy,
and truth is a freelance contractor
waiting on late payment.

We scroll past the smoke.
We double-tap the collapse.
We outsource our outrage
to a headline written in disappearing ink.

No one stops to ask
why the air tastes metallic.
No one wants to inventory
an unpleasant existence—
it’s easier to binge another distraction,
another blue-lit anesthesia
dripping from the ceiling of the feed.

Facts grow thinner.
So thin they’re transparent.
So transparent they pass through bone
without resistance.

You blink—
and the blink is curated.
You blink—
and the world has been gently rearranged
like furniture in a house you swear you know.

They call it perspective.
They call it balance.
They call it both sides.

But it feels like standing in a funhouse
where every mirror insists
you are the distortion.

And somewhere, softly—
almost kindly—
a voice says:

Don’t think too hard.
Don’t look too long.
This is normal.
This is fine.
This is freedom.

We repeat it
because repetition feels like stability.
We repeat it
until the echo sounds like evidence.

So tell me—

When the ground shifts
and the headlines applaud,
when the lie wears a flag
and the truth wears fatigue,

is it all fake news—

or did we just forget
how to see?

(c)BobChristianpoetry