Diplomatic Immunity
i don’t argue with mortals.
i don’t debate with men
who still flinch at their own reflection.
i walk in rooms
like i built the blueprint you stand on.
i speak
and the air tightens around the truth
whether you’re ready for it or not.
i’m cut from a cloth
you can’t trace back to any tailor —
this is divine weave,
cosmic thread,
ancestral frequency sewn in my spine.
call it diplomatic immunity:
i move untouched
through storms men drown in.
i walk past projections
and they fall off me
like rain hitting steel.
i don’t raise my voice —
my silence does the heavy lifting.
i don’t flex power —
power flexes around me.
i don’t seek respect —
respect kneels before it even knows why.
these dudes build personalities
off podcasts and panic,
then fold the moment
their heartbeat speeds up.
me?
i slow down.
i get clearer.
i turn calm into a weapon
you can’t defend against.
my presence is a foreign policy.
my aura is a ceasefire.
my tongue is a treaty
signed in fear by every man
who hoped i’d stay small.
but i’m not small.
i’m not shaking.
i’m not bending into versions
that make others feel safer.
i’m sovereign.
that’s the difference.
i walk like every lesson i’ve lived
is stamped in gold across my aura.
i talk like i already paid the price
men are scared to even invoice.
i breathe like i know god personally
and he signs my permission slips.
diplomatic immunity means this:
you can study me,
envy me,
misunderstand me,
pray for my downfall,
talk circles to feel tall —
none of it grazes me.
i rise above narratives
the same way i rise above noise:
with composure so raw
it turns insecure men religious.
this isn’t arrogance.
this is ancestry.
this is awareness.
this is the consequence of surviving
everything meant to silence me.
i move with immunity
because i earned it
in the shadows
no crowd clapped for.
and now?
i let the world watch.
i’ve said it once,
i’ll say it again:
i’m in better company
with my own reflection.
— Mr. Mak
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