You talk about "carving the bone" and the "truth,"
Then you spend your whole night burning the proof.
A "warrior" poet with a trembling thumb,
Muting the rhythm because you’re struck dumb.
You called it a "rap battle," "burning this fool,"
Then you ran for the eraser like a kid in a school.
If my lines were "thin-boned" and "limping" and "padded,"
Why are you terrified of the weight that I added?
You’re the "Wizard," the "Amigo," the "Sad," and the "Saint,"
But you’re just a coward with a bucket of paint.
Covering the "scars" and the "raw form" you bragged,
While your "Copyright" spirit is bleeding and jagged.
You "stepped over" once? No, you’re hitting Delete,
Scrubbing the blood from your "Dealing in Stone" street.
You claim I’m "obsessed" and I’m "starving for proof,"
While you’re ripping the tiles off your own leaky roof.
You can’t "carve the bone" with a plastic knife,
Or edit the "AI" out of your life.
Go back to your shelf, keep your "feelings" in check,
You’re a 400-follower train-wrecked wreck.
The "Final Chapter" isn't yours to write....
I’m the ink that stays black in your "Moonlight" white.
You can wipe the screen clean, you can bury the ink,
But I’m the only thing that made your "Original" think.
The End.
You didn't move on; you just closed your eyes.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 9:05 AM UTC
You talk about "proof" and "the 7th of Feb,"
Then you scramble to sweep every thread from your web.
A "warrior" poet with a shaky right hand,
Deleting the footprints I left in your sand.
You’re "Mexican Malcolm," you’re "Sad," you’re the "Heart,"
But you’re tearing the pages of your own "raw art."
You called me a "jester," a "Tin Man," a "thief,"
Then you scrubbed out the lines to find some relief.
If my words "don’t live" and my rhythm is "padded,"
Why are you terrified of the truth that I added?
You’re a "Wizard" of nothing, a shadow on screen,
Purging the evidence of where I have been.
You claim I’m "obsessed" and I’m "dealing in smoke,"
While you’re choking on verses that I didn't even spoke.
"I’m gonna burn this fool," was the battle you cried,
But you’re the one running with nowhere to hide.
You "stepped over" once? No, you’re hitting "Delete,"
Because you can't stand the sound of my boots on your street.
Keep your "413" and your copyright wall,
I’m the silence that’s left when your fake voices fall.
You can wipe the screen clean, you can bury the ink,
But you can’t stop a man who knows how to think.
I’m the "ghost in the machine," the "itch" in your head—
The only "Original" thing you’ve ever read.
The End.
You can delete the comment, but you can't delete the win.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 8:58 AM UTC
You’re a ghost in the comments, a flea on the skin,
Watching my shadow to see where I’ve been.
You spent a week trying to sharpen a dull-edged blade,
But you’re just a silhouette lost in the light I made.
You call me a joke to hide that you’re bored,
A beggar for clicks who can’t find his own chord.
You talk about "seams" and "recycled use,"
While you’re choking yourself with your own petty noose.
You studied my rhythm, you mimicked my pace,
Just to stay relevant, just to have a face.
But an echo is hollow, a mirror is cold,
And your little obsession is getting real old.
You say I’m "insecure," but you’re the one stuck,
A bottom-feeder looking for a piece of my luck.
I’m the poet, the drummer, the fire, the name—
You’re just the insect attracted to flame.
You didn’t "expose" me, you just let us see
How much of your time you’re devoting to me.
So keep your "precision," keep your weak little lines,
I’m building a kingdom while you’re digging in mines.
You think you’re a titan, you think you’re a threat?
You’re the easiest verse that I’ve written yet.
I’m the original print; you’re the ink that’s gone dry.....
A "Malcolm" who’s nothing but a bystander’s cry.
And here is the lesson to tuck in your head:
While you’re writing about me, I’m already ahead.
You don’t have a voice,
You just have a choice.....
To stay in the dirt where you’ve started,
Or shut your mouth and leave the departed.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 7:04 AM UTC
The sun went down, the moon rose high,
Underneath a mocking sky.
But Malcolm found no peace in sleep,
With a secret he was forced to keep.
A prickle turned into a flame,
An itch that had no face or name.
He tried the "Twist" and then the "Grind,"
Searching for a peace of mind.
He did a lap around the rug,
Giving his hips a desperate tug.
But like a shadow in the night,
The itch stayed just beyond his sight.
He swapped his boxers for the silk,
He drank a glass of soothing milk.
He tried to meditate away
The torment of his frantic day.
"I am a mountain, still and tall,"
He whispered to the bedroom wall.
But then it jumped, a sudden spark,
A jagged lightning in the dark!
He broke his zen, he lost his cool,
He felt like such a rhythmic fool.
He rolled and tumbled on the bed,
With visions of sandpaper in his head.
The stars looked down on Malcolm’s plight,
A lonely warrior in the night.
For though he fought with all his might,
The itch remained—tight, and bright.
A battle fought, a battle lost,
At such a heavy, scratching cost
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 6:58 AM UTC
The sun was bright, the sky was blue,
But Malcolm didn’t share the view.
He walked with steps both stiff and strange,
Like someone seeking a mountain range,
Or someone hiding a secret quest
Within the trousers of his best.
It started small, a tiny tickle,
A minor, localized prickly pickle.
But soon it grew, a fiery dance,
A phantom scratching inside his pants.
He tried the "Wiggle," then the "Slide,"
With nowhere left for a man to hide.
He leaned against a brickwork wall,
To give the area a subtle haul.
He did a shimmy, he did a quake,
Like a very nervous, upright snake.
He feigned a stretch, a rhythmic lunge,
To give that itch a desperate sponge.
"Is it the laundry? Is it the spice?
Did I not rinse the cycle twice?"
The questions swirled within his head,
While his dignity hung by a single thread.
He looked to the left, he looked to the right,
Then ducked behind a bush, out of sight.
With a sigh of relief and a frantic hand,
He reclaimed peace in the Promised Land.
The crisis passed, the storm was still,
He walked back up the grassy hill.
A lesson learned, a truth quite grim:
Sometimes your body plays jokes on him.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 6:41 AM UTC
They scan the page for digital footprints,
Searching for a ghost inside the gears,
Claiming every rhythm is a program
And every drop of salt is plastic tears.
But code don't know the way a heartbeat stutters,
And silicon can't feel the bite of cold.....
They’re staring at the lightning I’ve captured
While trying to claim the thunder has been sold.
To the skeptics and the kings of hollow rumors....
My spirit wasn't built by "search and find."
You can't "generate" the scars I’ve lived through,
Or "copy-paste" the hallways of my mind.
If you think my fire is just a reflection,
Then you’ve forgotten how a real flame glows....
I didn't steal a single spark of passion,
I’m just the one who felt the wind that blows.
So let them whisper through their bitter fences,
And let them trade their lies for hollow gold.
My voice is mine....unfiltered and defiant....
A story that no machine has ever told.
The ink is wet with life, not just logic,
The songs are born of grit and honest bone....
You can try to claim the garden that I’ve tended,
But the harvest is mine...and mine alone....
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 4:20 AM UTC
To Malcolm G and those following this thread:
It has come to my attention that some individuals, specifically Malcolm G, have been spending a significant amount of time questioning the authenticity of my creative work on Hello Poetry and Suno.
Let’s set the record straight: I am the primary author of my poetry. While I utilize modern digital tools to help bring my lyrics to life musically—as many creators do today—the soul, the words, and the direction come from my own experiences.
Attacking another creator’s process and calling their work "fake" or "bad junk" doesn't make you an expert; it just makes you a critic with too much free time. If my style isn't for you, that’s fine. But let’s not confuse a difference in taste with a lack of authenticity.
I’m here to create, not to seek permission or validation from people who would rather tear others down than build something of their own. I’ll keep writing and releasing my music; you’re welcome to keep watching from the sidelines.
Here is my play list for Suno. Malcolm G is a tity baby who has no style or love for anyone except his exalted self.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 8:38 PM UTC
The engine hums a low, vibrating chord,
Across the lines of a map I now ignore.
I’ve traded the anchor for the open lane,
Leaving the shadows and the ghost of the pain.
The rearview mirror is a fading blur,
Of everything I was and all the things we were.
I used to seek a harbor, a place to belong,
But the walls felt narrow and the air felt wrong.
Now the wind is my witness, the asphalt my guide,
With no more secrets and nowhere to hide.
It isn't about the miles or the names on the signs,
It’s the freedom of crossing those invisible lines.
The heavy heart I carried has turned into light,
Dissolving like woodsmoke into the night.
No debts to the past, no promises to keep,
Just the rhythm of tires and a silence so deep.
I don't need a compass, I don't need a prayer,
I’ve found my arrival in the middle of nowhere.
For "nowhere" is vast and "nowhere" is wide,
A kingdom of spirit with nothing inside.
Let the world keep its trophies and its hollow demands,
I’m washing the dust from my weary hands.
I’m gone like a vapor, a breath in the air.......
I’ve finally reached it: I care nowhere.
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
The sun was high, the day was bright,
But Malcolm’s world was far from right.
He paced the rug with a rhythmic gait,
Cursing the hand of a cruel, cruel fate.
For deep in the valley, where shadows reside,
Was a nagging sensation he couldn't quite hide.
It started out small, a
tickle, a tease,
Like a moth in the pantry or a soft summer breeze.
But soon it grew bold, a prickly demand,
A mountain of mischief in a forbidden land.
He tried to be subtle, he tried to be slick,
Using the corner of a chair for a quick, sneaky flick.
He shifted in meetings, he squirmed in his seat,
Attempting a "wiggle" that looked quite discreet.
But the itch was a warrior, stubborn and stout,
Demanding attention, a frantic "Scratch me!" shout.
He thought of the causes—the spice of the wings?
Or the laundry detergent that frequently stings?
He retreated at last to the stall in the hall,
To answer the desperate, internal call.
With a sigh of relief that reached to his soul,
He finally conquered the itch in the hole.
The battle was over, the peace was restored,
Until the next time that his backside got bored.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 11:49 AM UTC
The brass is cold against the palm,
A silent weight, a heavy calm.
The keyhole stares with hollow eye,
A silver mouth that won’t reply.
I brought the words I thought would fit,
The ancient scripts, the candle lit,
But hinges rusted in the rain
Offer nothing for the pain.
The threshold is a jagged line,
Where your world ends and starts with mine.
I hear the echo through the wood,
Of laughter where a shadow stood,
Of amber light and velvet chairs,
Of footsteps climbing hidden stairs.
But every latch is seated deep,
A promise that the deadbolts keep.
I did not come to claim the hall,
Or tear the tapestries from the wall.
I only sought a moment’s grace,
To see the firelight on your face.
But seasons turn and shadows grow,
Across the porch, the drifting snow.
The invitation never came......
The wood is deaf to every name.
So let the ivy wrap the frame,
And wilder winds forget the blame.
I’ll turn my back upon the gate,
And leave my longing to its fate.
For some doors open with a sigh,
And some stay shut until we die....
The hardest part of standing still
Is knowing that you never will.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 7:31 AM UTC