Repetition

Repetion

Don’t you think,

It’s funny how

History seems to repeat?

How famous words are suddenly not the speakers words anymore?

How those words are the tellers words? 

We stand on the shoulders of wise ones we've forgotten,

Left behind in the backs of our brains.

But still insist that our struggle is a singular art,

And that others deserve to hear everything we have to say.

But what if what we have to say, is something that’s already been spoken?

What do we do then?

We crave the credit, we crave the name,

ignoring the consequences of what is yet to come.

But the patterns remain, etched in our genes,

a symphony of borrowed overtones.

The passion you feel, the anger you speak,

was voiced yesterday by one who was weak.

And will be voiced tomorrow by one who is not,

singing the same old, unoriginal tune.

It’s funny, isn't it?

How originality is a myth we wish was true,

and we are all just echoes of the thing we wish not to repeat.