They parade themselves, wrapped in the husks of dead ideas,
like children draped in the drapes of a burned theatre—
gesturing wildly, mistaking ash for ink,
repetition for reverence,
and noise for narrative.
You’ve seen them.
Fluent in every dialect of the derivative.
Quoting shadows as scripture,
as though echoing something ancient might make their own hollowness sound holy.
They do not write.
They counterfeit.
They twist syntax like cheap wire into the shape of meaning,
and when the sculpture crumbles,
they applaud the mess and call it modern.
There is a literacy you cannot teach—
the kind born from ache,
from knowing the weight of a word before daring to place it down.
And they do not possess it.
They wear language like costume jewelry.
It shines, yes—
but hold it too long and the skin reacts.
Their ideas are embalmed,
not alive but perfectly preserved in the pickle jar of popular taste.
Their grief is performed in bullet points.
Their originality… algorithmic.
So precisely crafted it forgets to bleed.
And what strange little gods they’ve made of themselves—
preachers of the Ctrl+C,
convinced their curated suffering holds the same fragrance
as something lived.
I would call them harmless,
but they do scratch.
Like moths in the wallpaper—
noisy, pitiful,
consuming the very threads they pretend to weave.
They think proximity to great thought
makes them profound by osmosis.
That referencing a broken mirror
makes them dangerous,
rather than merely cracked.
I do not rage at them.
You must understand:
one does not resent the echo for being quieter than the voice.
One simply steps away from the canyon.
And oh, how they shudder in my silence—
not understanding it, only feeling the cold draft it leaves behind.
They think this is arrogance.
It isn’t.
Arrogance still requires insecurity.
This… is indifference, sharpened into elegance.
This… is what it looks like when literacy has teeth.
They cannot place what unsettles them,
because it isn’t loud.
It is not insult.
It is erosion—
a slow, glacial unmaking of everything they think they’ve earned.
And when they read this—
(which they will, though they’ll pretend otherwise)
they will feel something—
a soft internal splinter,
the kind that no tweet can tweeze out.
They won’t know what it is.
Not exactly.
But it will hum,
quietly, persistently,
like a string out of tune in a room where no one is playing music.
And it continues.
Doesn’t it
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