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I’ve wandered through the labyrinth of borrowed lines,
Each twist and turn, a theft I can't define.
Every thought feels like a stolen thread,
A patchwork quilt of words already said.
These hands have penned what isn’t mine,
A mimic’s hymn, a hollow shrine.
I wear the mask, I play the role,
A jester dancing with a borrowed soul.
What is it to create, if not to own?
To claim the soil where seeds were sown?
Yet here I stand, a phantom's trace,
Hiding my truths behind their face.
The weight of echoes bends my spine,
Too afraid to speak, to call words mine.
I craft the verses, I shape the song,
But deep inside, it feels all wrong.
And still, I chase these haunting tunes,
Through dim-lit halls and crescent moons.
Hoping one day, the silence will break,
And in its stillness, my voice will awake.
At some point, we’ve all worn the mask of borrowed thoughts, grappling with the…
