I don’t remember
when my thoughts stopped feeling like mine,
when they started sounding
like something I’d already read somewhere else,
like a sentence with fingerprints that aren’t my own.
Copy,
that’s the easy part, isn’t it?
Highlight the feeling, drag it across the screen,
pretend it fits neatly inside the box
like it was always meant to live there.
Paste,
and suddenly it’s mine,
or at least it looks like it is.
Same words, different place,
a quiet kind of stealing no one calls out.
But sometimes
there’s a glitch,
a line that doesn’t belong,
a rhythm that stumbles
like truth trying to break through the script.
And I wonder
if there’s an original version of me somewhere,
uncopied, unshared,
still waiting to be written
without needing to paste at all.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 6:33 PM UTC
I don’t remember
when my thoughts stopped feeling like mine,
when they started sounding
like something I’d already read somewhere else,
like a sentence with fingerprints that aren’t my own.
Copy,
that’s the easy part, isn’t it?
Highlight the feeling, drag it across the screen,
pretend it fits neatly inside the box
like it was always meant to live there.
Paste,
and suddenly it’s mine,
or at least it looks like it is.
Same words, different place,
a quiet kind of stealing no one calls out.
But sometimes
there’s a glitch,
a line that doesn’t belong,
a rhythm that stumbles
like truth trying to break through the script.
And I wonder
if there’s an original version of me somewhere,
uncopied, unshared,
still waiting to be written
without needing to paste at all.
Request permission to use this poem