You’re a Photocopier

You always fancied yourself original.
An architect of control.
A master of masks.
But you’re nothing more than a photocopier—
churning out shadows
with sharper teeth
and worse intentions.

You made something in your own image,
but forgot to filter the venom.
You didn’t raise them.
You printed them.
Fed them ink made of ego,
programmed them with spite.

They walk louder than you do.
That’s the only difference.
You whisper poison.
They scream it.
You lace your knives in charm.
They just stab.

You taught them that love is leverage.
That cruelty is currency.
That delusion can be worn like silk
if you iron it long enough.

And now you stand there,
mouth agape,
as your creation tears through the world—
a monster in your own font,
bolded,
underlined,
and wholly unashamed.

But don’t look so surprised.
They’re not a disappointment.
They’re your magnum opus.
You always wanted to be worshipped.
And now you’ve built a mirror
that bows to no one but itself.

So clap.
Applaud your masterpiece.
You did it.
You made something
even worse
than you.

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