Circle Scavengers

There’s a strange kind of silence when you watch your words leave your hands only to come back wearing someone else’s name. I’ve seen my images stitched into spaces they didn’t belong to, my metaphors rearranged into borrowed lines pretending to be new. I see the sudden sparks of “originality” that ignite right after I’ve set something down in ink. They’ll never admit it, of course. They’ll convince themselves they dreamed it first. But I know the rhythm of my own fire, and I recognize when my smoke curls through someone else’s sky.

I write to breathe, not to impress. I don’t scream in coded phrases or technical jargon just to prove that I’m intelligent. I don’t need to. The reach of my work speaks louder than words stacked to sound clever. I choose language that cuts clean, phrases that slip past gates and titles and touch everyone who reads them. That is my intent. That is my craft. That is my intelligence... refined not by how exclusive my words are, but by how far they travel, how deeply they land, and how many stay behind to live in the marrow of someone else’s thoughts. If that makes me dangerous, then so be it.

I’ve watched my twilight become their backdrop, my storm their plot twist, my descriptions threaded into their content as if I were invisible. It doesn’t rattle me... not in the way they want it to.. but it reminds me how often originality intimidates imitation. They circle like scavengers, taking fragments and calling them their own, mistaking proximity to creation for possession of it. But there’s a difference between lighting your own match and holding someone else’s flame. One burns brighter. The other burns out fast.

Maybe that’s what stings them most..  that I don’t play their game. I don’t need a podium built from borrowed brilliance or technical walls meant to keep others out. I write from the marrow, pulling raw nerves into the open, carving meaning from scars that cost me something real. And while they twist themselves trying to sound profound, I already know the truth: the power of my work isn’t in its complexity. It’s in its reach. It’s in making strangers stop mid-breath because something I wrote settled exactly where they needed it. That’s craft they can’t

counterfeit, no matter how many pieces they scrape from my voice.

Let them take what they want, spin my words into theirs, let them think they’ve leveled the field by echoing my cadence. It changes nothing. I am not drowning in their noise. I built this light myself, carved it out of rooms they’d never survive, forged it from nights they’d crumble beneath. And because I built it, they can’t touch it. They can chase it, copy it, wrap themselves in pieces of it,  but they will never carry its origin in their bones. That belongs to me. Always.

I don’t write to compete. I write because I refuse to vanish. I write because my survival demands it. I write because my voice has teeth and claws and refuses to stay quiet for anyone’s comfort. And in this shifting, restless world, I get to choose who stands close to my fire and who stays on the other side of my walls. If they want space in my orbit, they’ll bring proof, not pretense — actions, not echoes. Because

words without weight dissolve, and my patience for empty noise is gone.

I am not small enough to be swallowed.

I am not quiet enough to be erased.

And I am certainly not theirs to imitate

while pretending I don’t exist.

I am the origin not the echo.