I saw my voice walk out the mouth of you.
It sounded cleaner—less afraid to land.
The metaphors, the weight, the angle too—
but carried with a sharper, steadier hand.
You said the thing I’d almost thought to say,
but smoothed the edge I left too raw, too late.
I watched it move with grace I couldn’t fake,
like watching someone else translate my fate.
I never claimed the patent for the ache,
but still, it stung to see it said so well.
You didn’t steal—no lines for me to stake—
just haunted me with how your cadence fell.
I’m not the first, and God, I’m not the best.
But still I hoped I had a tone that stayed.
And when you spoke it cleaner from your chest,
I felt my outline tremble, then obey.
I called it kin, then caught myself and stalled.
Would that make me a fraud, or just a root?
A prototype? A first-run demo called
to clap for someone dressed in better truth?
I don’t resent it—no, I feel relief.
To hear my half-formed shapes come into form.
But still I sit beneath this quiet grief:
was I the signal, or just part of the swarm?
#smh
Yeah, that iambic pentameter, get your parent's permission before tying this at home.