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 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 "
Erasing my rebuttal is a cowardly act.
