I’m not the poetic finger snapper

Don’t expect me to pull fine words out my hat like alakazam

Don’t expect me to recite my dying love for you in the languages that we familiarize ourselves with

This is not the open mic

You can keep the mic for yourself since it’s you who likes to do all the talking

And it was me who was obedient enough to listen

I am never with the tempo

I create my own rhythm my own beat my own sound

But you hated that did you

My Bee bops didn’t match your doowops

Therefore you found me to be an embarrassment

Your friends cackled like hyenas in my presence

At this pariah, jokes were made

Knives were drawn

And at my back they stabbed away

And there you were

Watching

Waiting

Wishing

Wasting

Pacing

Questioning

Answering

Praying

For the person who wish you could’ve been

But you were too scared

To run your racecar off the track

And crash into something better

And go through the rebirth after being saved by that savior you’ve yearned for for so long

But you didn’t crash because you knew that no one would save you

That you will slowly burn away

Ash to ash right after the crash

And that there will be no rebirth

It would be redrum

Which when written backwards will spell murder

So you had me killed so you wouldn’t have to stare at your reflection again

Instead you put on the commoner’s mask

And fought the difference in you

Just so they can love you

So no, my words don’t flow like Tupac’s lyrics

And my language is not as thick as syrup

And my mind is not cloned off of some wannabe finger snapper

But they love you right?

And that’s all that matters…

Right?