Answers came
from the sky—
or the moon.
Soft as a whisper,
fading too soon.
I reached for their glow,
let it live in my chest,
a quiet ignition
I dressed up as “blessed.”
They called it a gift,
said my voice could consume—
turn silence to thunder,
make shadows all bloom.
And I believed them.
God, I believed—
every echo they fed me,
every trick I received.
But fame is a hunger
that sharpens its teeth,
it smiles like heaven
then swallows beneath.
It kisses your name
till it carves it in stone,
then leaves you surrounded
but dying alone.
So I hold to the dark,
to the truth I once knew—
not all that is shining
was meant to be you.
Answers still fall
from the sky—
or the moon.
And I hear something warning:
Not now…
but soon.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 12:14 PM UTC
Answers came
from the sky—
or the moon.
Soft as a whisper,
fading too soon.
I reached for their glow,
let it live in my chest,
a quiet ignition
I dressed up as “blessed.”
They called it a gift,
said my voice could consume—
turn silence to thunder,
make shadows all bloom.
And I believed them.
God, I believed—
every echo they fed me,
every trick I received.
But fame is a hunger
that sharpens its teeth,
it smiles like heaven
then swallows beneath.
It kisses your name
till it carves it in stone,
then leaves you surrounded
but dying alone.
So I hold to the dark,
to the truth I once knew—
not all that is shining
was meant to be you.
Answers still fall
from the sky—
or the moon.
And I hear something warning:
Not now…
but soon.
This piece came from thinking about where inspiration comes from—and what it costs. Not everything that feels like a gift is harmless. Some things arrive softly… and stay longer than they should.
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