Dead Wrong
You thought you could stay my enemy
without me noticing, African?
Dead wrong.
I see you —
dressed in borrowed authority,
speaking in tongues that aren’t yours.
A teacher?
More like a performer,
using the stage of my life
to spin your lies.
Trying to sell me favors,
playing battles like games
with no rules.
But the world’s not your stage.
And you’re not the only one with a script.
You dress up,
pretend to hold the power,
offer words as if they’re currency —
but all I hear is a manipulation
that only works on the naïve.
Even YouTube knows —
your videos pop up,
twisting my thoughts,
telling me to be quiet,
to accept the show.
But I don’t buy it.
You’re the one who will fail,
because I’m not fooled.
Your battle is not my war.
You’ve made the mistake of thinking
you can wear me down
with hollow threats and empty words.
But I see the threads now.
And I cut them one by one.