If I just bring it to life, is it mine?
A spark ignites, but where is the line?
It wouldnât exist if I hadnât begun,
But when itâs finished, do I claim Iâm the one?
I stitch together fragments of thought,
But nothing I have is something Iâve caught.
I gather the pieces, I make them whole,
But the voice in my head says it's not from my soul.
I wear these words like theyâre my own skin,
But underneath, is there truth within?
Am I the artist, or just a guide,
Following shadows where others hide?
Iâm broken down by all I disguise,
Buried beneath a web of lies.
Nothing belongs to me in the end,
Not the verse, not the truth I pretend.
Every line feels like a stolen claim,
And every signature, a hollow name.
Am I the maker or just the hand,
Tracing a path I donât understand?
So I sit with the doubt, it lingers near,
Whispering softly, feeding my fear.
These words that I share, do they belong to me?
Or am I just lost in a borrowed sea...