I do not write to carve my name in stone,
nor sing for echoes in a crowded hall.
I let the melodies guide me alone,
not chasing gold—just heeding music’s call.
The rise and fall, the pulse, the breath, the sound,
the way a chord can lift or break a heart,
the way a note can wrap the soul around—
that’s why I sing, that’s why I play my part.

I paint not to be Michelangelo,
nor sculpt a legacy in strokes and hue.
I love the way the colors ebb and flow,
how crimson bleeds into the ocean blue.
The way the brush moves freely on the page,
unchained, unbound, without a master's plan,
each splash, each stroke, defying gilded cage—
art is not owned, nor shaped by any hand.

I do not write so history may know
my name, my voice, my carefully placed rhyme.
I love the way the words leap, spin, and flow,
untamed by rules, unshackled by the time.
They dance, they drift, they whisper, they collide,
unruly specters with no paths to trace.
They do not beg for praise or stand with pride—
they simply are, existing in their place.

This is what art is: raw, alive, and true,
not stitched to fame, nor meant to outshine men.
Not meant to stand atop the grandest view,
nor seek to rise by making others dim.
It is the voice that speaks without a crown,
the light that glows without demanding eyes.
And if another finds my work profound,
that’s extra—but it never was the prize.