Another song

 fog, misplaced of blame.an found and identical name to blame, the use of this name was the chip placed on the table which is me ,your gamble
It rolls into a sudden myth of an individual with
words, of  once solid ground,in the just,
become quicksand in demand they're  lies
shifted by a glance, a carefully timed silence.
You see the storm approaching,
but I am the one holding 
and you insist it was your fault the sky darkened.

Every smooth interaction I build,
every promotion within reach,
is met by an invisible wall,
a subtle redirection of the narrative.
My competence, once lauded,
now hangs by a thread of whispered doubt,
a seed you planted casually in fertile ears.

I function, yes, I show up,
the suit pressed, the reports submitted,
the smile fixed just right.
Yet the calls stop coming.PRESENTS OF  yall dry up like a river in drought.
Why? pore over my recent history,
searching for the seismic event, the clear misstep,
finding only the mundane rhythm of effort.

It’s the quiet erosion, isn’t it?
The missing context, the timeline slightly skewed,
Can you reminisce of our relations ,not today
Things you tell people 
BITCH
“I never said that,” you insist,
your eyes wide with genuine concern,
a perfect imitation  trying to be like,
Or wants to be likemutherfuckers I'm me,
Then ,over and over for a decade now
And I begin to doubt  in my own head.
Never had doubt in oara  of me

Did I really pitch that idea that way?
Was my tone truly abrasive yesterday,
or is this the residue of your careful filtering?
The world seems to vibrate at a different frequency for me now,
a jarring, off-key note only I can hear.

My professional scaffolding, painstakingly
crumbles the constant,  leaching of belief.
My colleagues look at me sideways,
a flicker of pity, a hint of caution.
They don’t need the full story,
just the impression you’ve skillfully crafted:
unstable, perhaps overly sense
a liability waiting to happen to be revealdd

The life not logical,
is suddenly porous, full of leaks I cannot trace.
I clean the floor, but the water keeps rising.
I check the locks, but the intruder is already inside,
wearing my own face, speaking my own doubts back to a steady, unassuming glow that only serves to darken everything else.I walk into rooms where I used to belong,and the temperature drops three degrees.I present my evidence, clear and documented,and it dissolves into subjective feelings.“You’re overthinking it again,” you say,
a balm that scalds.How can I be failing when I am doing everything right?The answer floats just out of reach,a reflection in water I can not cup.
I am the architect of my own slow demolition,
and I don’t even know which tool you handed me.
Just the wreckage remaining, and the heavy, question:Why does everyone else see the fire, but you  Your just being  Perceptions  for a whole different person, looking at someone you respect and being treated as garbage, can't have anything,Theirs nothing you can do for their identity theft 

rap, trap high hats bassline soul