the slow bleed
they call it income tax.
they call it fair.
but it's not about fairness,
it's about the slow bleed.
the old money sits in towers, untouched.
wrapped in trusts, stitched into corporations,
their billions glide past the ledger,
smooth as silk, quiet as a whisper.
but you?
you start something new,
you build, you grind,
you take the risk,
and here they come.
they come with their hands out,
before you can stand, before you can breathe.
you hire a man, they tax you.
you pay yourself, they tax you.
you buy the things you need,
and they tax you again.
the real game isn’t about wealth.
the old guard keeps theirs,
locked away in rules they wrote for themselves.
this game is about control.
they don’t go after the rich.
the rich have lawyers,
the rich have accountants,
the rich have escape routes.
they come for the builders.
they come for the ones clawing their way up,
for the ones who don’t have loopholes yet,
for the ones who think playing fair means winning.
they say it’s about funding schools,
hospitals, roads—
but those things are just excuses.
this isn’t about making things better.
it’s about keeping you in your place.
and if you want to keep a little more?
prove it.
file.
explain yourself.
list every penny.
turn your life inside out,
show your debts, your choices,
your failures, your breath, your blood. —————— They call it income tax, but it’s not about income, and it’s sure as hell not about fairness.
It is a system about punishment. Income tax about a government that figured out a long time ago that if you keep a man just barely afloat, if you let him have just enough to eat, just enough to drink, just enough to keep his nose above the waterline, he won’t ask too many questions. He won’t fight back. He won’t build anything worth a damn, because the moment he does, they take their cut.
That’s the real joke.
Income tax is not a tax on wealth.
This insidious cancer is a tax on creation.
The guy who takes nothing and turns it into something, the guy who risks his time, his money, his sanity to build something of value—that’s the guy they want to put down. They don’t go after the fat bastards on yachts, the ones born into money, the ones who’ve got lawyers and accountants stacking their cash in places no taxman can touch.
Those guys don’t pay. Those guys live inside a world of trusts and shell companies and paper-thin corporate fronts that shield them from ever having to part with a goddamn cent.
No, income tax isn’t for them.
Tax for the rest of us. Tax is for the guy who wakes up at five in the morning to open his shop.
Income tax is for the woman who works two jobs to start her own business on the side. It’s for the freelancer, the contractor, the entrepreneur—the people actually making something happen. They’re the ones getting fleeced. The taxman comes not with a knife, but with a scalpel, cutting deeper and deeper each year, taking just enough to keep you going, but never enough to let you get ahead.
And here’s the kicker—they tell you it’s for your own good.
They tell you it’s for the roads, the schools, the hospitals. They tell you it’s about the “social contract.”
But what kind of contract is this, where one side dictates the terms and the other has no choice but to sign in blood? Where your labour, your effort, your sweat is treated as if it belongs to them first, and you’re just lucky they let you keep some?
They never go after the old money.
1/3
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Jan 25, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1883100816191688837
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2560
they call it income tax.
they call it fair.
but it's not about fairness,
it's about the slow bleed.
the old money sits in towers, untouched.
wrapped in trusts, stitched into corporations,
their billions glide past the ledger,
smooth as silk, quiet as a whisper.
but you?
you start something new,
you build, you grind,
you take the risk,
and here they come.
they come with their hands out,
before you can stand, before you can breathe.
you hire a man, they tax you.
you pay yourself, they tax you.
you buy the things you need,
and they tax you again.
the real game isn’t about wealth.
the old guard keeps theirs,
locked away in rules they wrote for themselves.
this game is about control.
they don’t go after the rich.
the rich have lawyers,
the rich have accountants,
the rich have escape routes.
they come for the builders.
they come for the ones clawing their way up,
for the ones who don’t have loopholes yet,
for the ones who think playing fair means winning.
they say it’s about funding schools,
hospitals, roads—
but those things are just excuses.
this isn’t about making things better.
it’s about keeping you in your place.
and if you want to keep a little more?
prove it.
file.
explain yourself.
list every penny.
turn your life inside out,
show your debts, your choices,
your failures, your breath, your blood. —————— They call it income tax, but it’s not about income, and it’s sure as hell not about fairness.
It is a system about punishment. Income tax about a government that figured out a long time ago that if you keep a man just barely afloat, if you let him have just enough to eat, just enough to drink, just enough to keep his nose above the waterline, he won’t ask too many questions. He won’t fight back. He won’t build anything worth a damn, because the moment he does, they take their cut.
That’s the real joke.
Income tax is not a tax on wealth.
This insidious cancer is a tax on creation.
The guy who takes nothing and turns it into something, the guy who risks his time, his money, his sanity to build something of value—that’s the guy they want to put down. They don’t go after the fat bastards on yachts, the ones born into money, the ones who’ve got lawyers and accountants stacking their cash in places no taxman can touch.
Those guys don’t pay. Those guys live inside a world of trusts and shell companies and paper-thin corporate fronts that shield them from ever having to part with a goddamn cent.
No, income tax isn’t for them.
Tax for the rest of us. Tax is for the guy who wakes up at five in the morning to open his shop.
Income tax is for the woman who works two jobs to start her own business on the side. It’s for the freelancer, the contractor, the entrepreneur—the people actually making something happen. They’re the ones getting fleeced. The taxman comes not with a knife, but with a scalpel, cutting deeper and deeper each year, taking just enough to keep you going, but never enough to let you get ahead.
And here’s the kicker—they tell you it’s for your own good.
They tell you it’s for the roads, the schools, the hospitals. They tell you it’s about the “social contract.”
But what kind of contract is this, where one side dictates the terms and the other has no choice but to sign in blood? Where your labour, your effort, your sweat is treated as if it belongs to them first, and you’re just lucky they let you keep some?
They never go after the old money.
1/3
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Jan 25, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1883100816191688837
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2560
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