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
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 "
