did i lose you?

 suddenly winning becomes… problematic.


where people liked you more

when you were struggling,

searching,

trying to survive yourself.


now you rise,

and the room gets quiet.


now your voice sharpens,

and the air gets thin.


now your pen becomes a weapon,

and people flinch at the accuracy.


funny how no one pats your back for the come up —

not the nights you dug yourself out of your own mind,

not the days you carried your family on your spine,

not the seasons where you held chaos together

with nothing but breath and instinct.


i used to think suffering made people proud of you.


but i’m learning something darker —

people only love you unthreatening.


they preferred me when my confidence was a whisper,

when my writing was potential,

not prophecy,

when my pain was relatable,

not refined.


now i walk into a room

and people don’t clap…

they calculate.


as if evolution is an offense.

as if ambition is arrogance.

as if striving for more

means i’ve betrayed the version of me

they were comfortable with.


the real question becomes:

what do you see when you see me?


do you see the man who broke himself open

to build something real?

or do you see the man who rose too far above

your comfort zone?


do you see a creator finally stepping into his gift?

or do you see a threat to the narratives

you built around me?


i used to ask myself:

why don’t they clap anymore?

but now i ask:

why did they clap in the first place?


and the more i grow,

the more i notice the fatigue in people —

the way they stand for nothing and get tired from it.


i notice the bitterness

from those who never took a risk,

never left their comfort,

never chose themselves.


i notice the envy

in the eyes of people who swore they supported me

back when i was a “maybe,”

but can’t handle me now that i’m a “definitely.”


things got dark for me this year —

but my aura stayed burning.


i glowed through shit

men twice my age would’ve drowned in.


i stayed solid

in rooms that wanted me silent.


i didn’t fold,

i didn’t retreat,

i didn’t ask permission.


but sometimes…

yeah,

sometimes i still ask myself:


did i lose you?


the you that existed

before the storms,

before the silence,

before the growth?


did i lose the version of myself

that still cared who understood me?


did i lose the softness

that used to break so easily?


did i lose the comfort

of not knowing what i was capable of?


did i lose the world

that made sense

because it was small?


maybe i did.


maybe losing that version

was the price of becoming this one.


maybe losing the crowd

was the cost of finding myself.


and maybe,

just maybe…


i didn’t lose anything.


maybe everyone else just lost access.


so here i am:

evolving louder than they can handle,

rising faster than they expected,

writing deeper than they can process,

living in a frequency

they never imagined i’d reach.


and as the page turns,

as the chapter closes,

as the old life fades from view —


i only got one thing left to say:


two middle fingers

as i make an exit.


— Mr. Mak


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