LEVELS

 there’s levels to this.

and most people don’t even know the floor they’re standing on

until they look up

and realize someone like me is already ten flights higher

moving quiet, moving clean, moving cold.


people try to talk to me like we’re built the same.

like we think the same,

feel the same,

see the same.


we don’t.


i move with discipline they’ve never tasted.

i carry weight they’ve never lifted.

i read rooms they can’t even enter.

my silence solves problems their voices created.

my presence shifts atmospheres

they don’t even notice are changing.


they think they’re speaking to me,

but all i hear is noise.

emotion without structure,

opinions without experience,

confidence without receipts.


i speak from evolution,

from pain converted to precision,

from nights where i held myself through battles

they will never even recognize as battles.


i speak a language

that only men who’ve rebuilt themselves understand—

the dialect of accountability,

the accent of self-respect,

the grammar of staying solid when it’s easier to fold.


and that’s why most people don’t get me.

they’re not supposed to.

you can’t comprehend a frequency

you’ve never disciplined yourself to reach.


only a handful ever will.

the rest?

they’ll watch from a distance

thinking they’re close

when they’re not even in the same building.


because at the end of the day,

there’s levels.

and i’m done pretending we’re on the same one.


bow down and kiss the ring.

all hail the king. 


— Mr. Mak


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