Fuck You, Cogito

You sit in an armchair carved from conscience stone,

thinking for others, never in your own tone.

Finger raised high, your gaze above the crowd,

ethics so spotless – hands washed, pure and proud.

From your pocket sticks a manual for life,

how to live properly, how to die just right.

But when the streets scream and the walls start to crack,

you leave a note: “we should analyze that.”

Fuck you, Cogito! patron saint of delay,

king of footnotes, master of staying away.

Fuck you, Cogito! from the question that burns,

no dirt on your hands, no risk, no turns.

Your courage is always deferred in time,

after the fact, always missing the climb.

History bleeds, and you say “reflect,”

as if thinking alone could absolve neglect.

Smooth irony, polished phrase,

a pocket-sized conscience in adjustable ways.

The world is on fire, you measure the ash

with a ruler of rules, cold, textbook, detached.

Fuck you, Cogito! guardian of sense,

never running — just weighing the tense.

Fuck you, Cogito, with balance so tight,

when imbalance itself is the bravest fight.

Maybe you think, therefore you are,

but others exist — because they must act hard.

Not every luxury of reflection

is virtue, when it costs someone else protection.

Fuck you, Cogito! —

not for the questions —

but for the comfort of your confessions.

Fuck you, Cogito! master of poise,

always in between, untouched by the noise.

Fuck you, Cogito, conscience in a suit,

the world screams “now,” you follow the route.

Fuck you, Cogito! —

I spit on your disguise.

My violent pleasures break all your ties,

while you count empty columns, your numbers, your lies.

Fuck you, Cogito!

Not for the questions.

Not for replies.

But because in the end

none of it applies.

The world wasn’t wrong.

The world never learned.

The world simply was —

thinking adjourned.