Poets Who Play Nice Get Forgotten. Here’s How to Burn Your Name Into History.

Your voice isn’t a product. Stop selling it to the highest bidder.

Listen.

Poetry isn’t about trends, follower counts, or the hollow applause of literary gatekeepers. I learned this the hard way—first in Jamaica, where I twisted my tongue to fit their colonial metre, then in Toronto, where they reward you for being just black enough to be exotic but just quiet enough to be safe. But this isn’t about cities. This is about the global sickness infecting poets everywhere: the desperate need to be liked.

I traded my truth for their approval and it damn near killed my pen.

Then I stopped.

I stopped writing for the algorithm, the critics, the curated Instagram feeds. I started writing from the raw, unfiltered core of who I am—Jamaican, immigrant, man, outsider, dreamer, fighter. And like magic, the so-called writer’s block vanished. Because it was never a block—it was chains.

Now I’m speaking directly to you, poet in Lagos, Berlin, Mumbai, Brooklyn, Melbourne:

They want your voice—but only the version they can control.

They’ll praise your exoticrhythm but censor your politics.

They’ll love your struggle—as long as it’s polished for their consumption.

They’ll call you bold while pressuring you to be small.

Here’s what you must do instead:

1. Write the poem that would get you cancelled in your country.

2. Speak in the language of your ancestors, even if they “don’t get it.”

3. Observe everything—the way old men argue in barbershops, the way politicians lie without blinking, the way love survives in the darkest places.

4. Reject the lie that your art must be palatable to matter.

The world doesn’t need more obedient poets. It needs your voice—unfiltered, unapologetic, and dangerous.

So ask yourself tonight: Are you writing to be liked, or are you writing to be free?

Discussion: Where have you compromised your voice? What’s the poem you’re still too scared to write? (Tag a poet who needs to hear this.)