Attitude: The Crownless King

In city suits and tinted shades, they strut with hollow pride,

Their voices trimmed in accents false, their egos open wide.

They speak in half-formed Instagram quotes, with filters on their tone,

Each moment staged, each smile rehearsed, yet always so alone.

They laugh too loud at coffee shops, with phones pressed to the ear,

Ignoring friends just inches close, while texting someone near.

They post their meals, their abs, their shoes, their overpriced cologne,

But never once post honesty—just pixels over bone.

At family dinners, heads are bowed—but not in prayer or grace,

Just glued to screens, where fake applause replaces warm embrace.

They cancel plans for “mental health,” then scroll the night away,

While grandma waits beside a cake for one more fruitless day.

Their friendships flicker like their snaps, in temporary blaze,

They ghost each other, then complain, “People these days!”

They judge a soul by what they wear, or how they part their hair,

As if a heart could be discerned from brands or glossy glare.

They say, “It’s just my attitude,” as if it were a style—

A pout, a shrug, a careless nod, a smirk that feigns a smile.

They wear it like a leather coat, too tight across the chest,

Forgetting attitude is shaped in silence and unrest.

It isn’t in your diamond watch, nor in your moody stare,

It’s in the way you help a man who’s sinking in despair.

It’s in the pause you take to hear the words behind the sigh,

It’s in the way you lift a soul without asking why.

The modern man has learned to sneer, to flex and to pretend,

To monetize his suffering, and monetize a friend.

He masks his wounds with “positive vibes” and memes of shallow cheer,

Yet panics when the mirror speaks, and truth is drawing near.

He’s built his throne on hashtags now, on buzzwords, clout, and shade,

Yet kingdoms rise not from disdain, but choices humbly made.

For attitude’s not what you pose, nor angles you perfect—

But how you face the world alone, with virtue or neglect.

It shapes your path without a map, it forecasts who you’ll be,

A compass carved of memory, of learning how to see.

It’s not a show, it’s not a mask, it’s not a power play—

It’s how you treat the world when pride has walked away.

Empires once were born and burned through attitude alone—

The hunger for a tyrant's rule or freedom's subtle tone.

It’s not your voice, but how you use it; not your stance, but why—

It’s how you kneel before the truth, and how you rise and try.

So mark this well, O men of now, with all your showy breath—

A poor attitude’s the slowest path to mediocrity’s death.

For attitude’s the quiet pulse that drums beneath your skin—

The whisper of what’s yet to come, the echo deep within.

The world you scorn is but a mirror crafted from your gaze,

You see disdain because you give it, lost in your own maze.

But those who walk with upright hearts, though battered and unheard,

Will build with hands of quiet strength the future shaped by word.

So throw aside your plastic pride, your selfies dipped in gold,

And choose to build an inner fire that neither dims nor folds.

For attitude is not a crown that rests on hollow heads—

But soil in which your morals grow, and where your future treads.