The Armchair Activist
Poetry & Prose by Britt Wolfe
They post their outrage at noon,
hashtagged, filtered, perfectly lit.
Their compassion expires at 8 p.m.
when the discourse does.
They call it solidarity.
I call it a photoshoot in moral drag.
They quote the right poets,
cancel the wrong ones,
speak in callouts and disclaimers,
trade empathy for applause.
They confuse visibility for virtue—
as if awareness were action,
as if saying this is bad
ever changed a thing.
Their hands are clean because they never touch the world.
Their anger is academic.
Their guilt, decorative.
They wear justice like a trend—
seasonal, disposable,
out of style by the next election.
And yet—
I can’t hate them.
They are not the rot,
only the mould that grows
when decay goes unchallenged.
Because the real danger
isn’t the ones preaching from their sofas—
it’s the ones preaching from podiums,
turning cruelty into campaign slogans,
writing hate into law,
teaching people to mistake vengeance for patriotism.
We are not losing to apathy.
We are losing to hunger—
the gnawing, generational hunger
for someone else’s suffering to make things feel fair again.
This is not a contest of purity.
This is not who can say the most correct thing
with the most performative shame.
This is about staying awake—
even when it hurts,
even when your own side stumbles.
Because while we argue about tone,
they are building bonfires.
And while we perfect our language,
they are perfecting control.
So yes—
post your outrage.
March. Donate. Speak.
But never mistake your mirror for the world.
And never forget who the enemy is.
It’s not the imperfect ally.
It’s not the tired activist.
It’s the ones who keep winning
by convincing us
we’re fighting each other.
KEEP MY WORDS ALIVE
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Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
