_An opening statement:_
"I am the son of a son— who son a son from the sweat of forefathers,
working under the sun. And I’ve lived my days under a sun of my
own— so depressed, that often my depression became a weapon
against my depression.
_In a deeper sense_—
I am senseless to the touch of what’s called real, to sense less of love,
raised on fantasy, but starved by reality. My expression comes and
goes— words that soar, then swoop, pecking and clawing, a bird in
season, a vulture to its own despair— feeding on misplaced hopes.
_Yet I remember the soil I came from,_
I am a son of a son of that son— when one sun sets, another shall rise.
Born to burn, born to light; knowing even the blind can feel it's shine.
For though the weight of the world rests on my crown, I am still my
father’s dawn— the morning they prayed would come.
Oct 13, 2025
Oct 13, 2025 at 8:52 AM UTC
_An opening statement:_
"I am the son of a son— who son a son from the sweat of forefathers,
working under the sun. And I’ve lived my days under a sun of my
own— so depressed, that often my depression became a weapon
against my depression.
_In a deeper sense_—
I am senseless to the touch of what’s called real, to sense less of love,
raised on fantasy, but starved by reality. My expression comes and
goes— words that soar, then swoop, pecking and clawing, a bird in
season, a vulture to its own despair— feeding on misplaced hopes.
_Yet I remember the soil I came from,_
I am a son of a son of that son— when one sun sets, another shall rise.
Born to burn, born to light; knowing even the blind can feel it's shine.
For though the weight of the world rests on my crown, I am still my
father’s dawn— the morning they prayed would come.
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