The Entrepreneurs Dream (A spoken word Anthem)
I am The Entrepreneur’s Dream.
Not a costume for cameras.
Not a poster. Not a pitch.
I am a live wire in your ribcage.
The kiss and the cliff.
The map you draw while falling.
Hope with dirty hands.
Love with an invoice.
A future I carry like contraband.
A secret you whisper back
because the world is loud with “no”.
I do not start with permission.
I start with obsession.
The thought that will not behave.
The thought that taps you at 2:11 a.m.
like it owns your sleep.
One small unfair advantage.
One crack in the wall.
Zero to one, that first illegal spark.
Not copy. Not clone. Not safe.
A strange little monopoly of meaning.
A new door in a wall
everyone stopped looking at.
A future dragged into daylight by my teeth.
I fall in love with the chase,
not the applause.
The mad romance of making a thing exist
from nerve and notebooks,
from a calendar that never sleeps.
I am also the hard thing.
The hard thing about hard things.
The call I rehearse and still get wrong.
The meeting where my voice performs.
The night I stare at payroll like it is a judge,
and feel the verdict gathering.
Wartime mind.
No easy answers, only consequences.
I cut a plan to save a people.
I cut a person to save a plan.
Fluorescent lighting.
A cheap chair.
A face trying not to crack.
My mouth saying words
that do not feel like my mouth.
Then I walk outside and the sun is rude.
Cars pass. Birds keep singing.
The world continues
like it did not hear me.
That is the horror.
How normal it all looks
after you cross a line
you cannot uncross.
Some days I am a hero in my own movie.
Investors nodding, my name in bold,
someone else’s deck quoting my words.
I think I can bend time.
I think I can bend the world.
Then the floor drops out.
Bank balance becomes a wound.
You carry it into every room.
People can smell it on you.
The inbox becomes a mouth.
Every subject line, another tooth.
The product breaks.
The partner ghosts.
Promises evaporate mid-sentence.
And my chest turns to concrete.
Not metaphor. Concrete.
Breathing becomes a negotiation.
I learn a cruel arithmetic,
not of money, of self.
How fast the mind ties worth to outcome.
How a “no” can sound like “you are nothing”.
And still.
Still I get up.
Not because I am fearless.
Because something in me refuses to die
just because it hurts.
We do not ask permission.
We do not worship ceilings.
We build. We break. We learn.
Then build again.
I live where you keep your people close.
Believers who lend you their spine
when yours is shaking.
Guides who give you a tool, not a slogan.
Proof, those scarred ones who kept going,
so you can say,
if they survived, I can.
We become comrades.
We trade sleep for progress.
We trade fear for a handshake.
We make family out of strangers.
And yes, it can get ugly.
The transactional itch. The ROI reflex.
The moment you catch yourself
measuring a human being
like a line item.
We do not ask permission.
We do not worship ceilings.
We build. We break. We learn.
Then build again.
Here is the truth.
There is a moment
after the war-room language
where you meet yourself in a mirror
and you do not recognise the eyes.
You think you are building a future.
But you are also building a person.
And if you build the wrong person,
the company wins
and you still lose.
So I write it.
Not as virtue.
As a restraint.
On the mirror.
On the day my voice scared me.
On the day I realised
I could become a machine
that wears my face.
Be kind.
Be kind.
Be kind.
Not because it is pretty.
Because love is the only thing
that keeps this from turning feral.
Love for the team. Love for the craft.
Love for the kid I used to be
who wanted to make something real,
before I learned to measure everything.
When the ceiling is gone
and the sky feels empty,
when the win tastes like metal,
when the loss tastes like shame,
remember this:
We are not here to be safe.
We are here to be alive.
To sprint at the future with our whole voice.
To make a door where there was only wall.
We do not ask permission.
We do not worship ceilings.
We build. We break. We bleed. We learn.
Then build again, together.
You cannot unknow this freedom
once you have tasted it.
I am The Entrepreneur’s Dream.
Risk and refuge.
The loud yes inside your quiet doubt.
The adventure that costs everything
and gives you back your name.