Who are you to judge me…

The irony of someone thinking they know when they don’t know!

They never asked my voice
what it was doing in the room.
They just pointed at the echo
and decided it wasn’t mine.

They said I borrowed breath,
that I fed other people’s words
into a machine
and called the output mine—
as if craft leaves fingerprints,
as if intention isn’t human.

The irony sat there smiling:
accused by assumption,
convicted by rumor,
named guilty of using the wrong ghost
in the wrong box.

No knock.
No question.
Just a door closed
and rules rewritten behind it.

I stood outside holding my work,
still warm, still mine,
wondering when fear learned to moderate
and when curiosity lost its job.

Let them keep their certainty.
I’ll keep the truth—
and the quiet knowledge
that real writing survives
even when the room decides
it doesn’t want to listen.