I wanted people to understand that I have my own music, and I

Melanie Martinez, the visionary artist who cloaks truth in haunting melodies and bold imagery, once declared: “I wanted people to understand that I have my own music, and I didn’t want to sing other people’s songs at shows.” In these words lies not merely the ambition of a performer, but the eternal cry of the soul for authenticity. For to sing the songs of others may bring applause, but to sing one’s own music is to reveal the heart, to stand vulnerable before the world, to dare to declare: this is who I am.

When Martinez speaks of her own music, she names the deep wellspring of creativity within every human being. Each soul has a voice, each heart has a story, each mind has melodies no one else can compose. Yet the world often urges us to imitate, to repeat, to perform the creations of others. There is safety in imitation, but no true freedom. To step onto the stage of life with your own song is to risk rejection—but it is also the only path to truth.

The refusal to sing other people’s songs is not arrogance, but courage. It is the courage to walk away from borrowed voices, from masks, from the shadows of others’ greatness, and to stand in the fragile light of one’s own originality. Many have lived as echoes, but few have dared to be a voice. Melanie’s words remind us that greatness is not born of imitation but of self-expression. The world does not hunger for another copy; it longs for the authentic soul revealed.

Consider the story of Bob Dylan, who began by performing folk standards but soon grew restless. He turned to his own pen, his own vision, and in doing so transformed not only his career but the very landscape of music. His songs were rough, raw, at times ridiculed—but they were his. And in their authenticity, they carried a power that outlived all borrowed melodies. Like Martinez, Dylan knew the truth: that art only becomes immortal when it springs from the depths of the self.

This principle is not confined to musicians alone. Every life has its “songs”—the work we create, the words we speak, the choices we make. We may choose to repeat what others have said, to mimic the patterns handed down to us, or we may dare to compose our own. The former wins easy approval; the latter requires struggle. Yet it is only in living one’s own song that one truly lives, rather than existing as an echo of others.

The lesson is clear: embrace your authenticity, though it may set you apart. Do not fear that your song is too strange, too fragile, too unlike the melodies of others. What is uniquely yours may be the very gift the world most needs. To imitate is to disappear into the crowd; to create is to stand out, to endure, to be remembered. As Martinez declared, the true artist—and indeed the true human—cannot be content with borrowed voices.

Practically, this means: write your own words, craft your own path, live your own truth. If you are an artist, create rather than copy. If you are a worker, bring forth ideas rather than echo orders. If you are a dreamer, dare to dream dreams that are your own, even if the world does not yet understand them. And when you stand before others, stand not with a mask, but with your face unveiled.

So let us hold fast to this wisdom: “I have my own music.” May each of us discover, embrace, and share our own song, rather than hiding in the comfort of imitation. For the world is not changed by echoes; it is changed by voices. Be that voice, and let your song resound.