Hurt,
A smear across the canvas.
No,
not a smear—a wound.
A slash,
a burn,
a bruise.
You wear it like a crown.
You wear it, and think you’re the mask—
but,
you’re not.
You’re the hand.

Stuck
in the cage of your own thoughts,
the chains rusted, but still they cling.
Why do you believe them?
Those chains?
Those are lies.
Not your skin,
not your bones.
You—you—are the fire
that melts them.

Life?
Yeah.
Life hurts.
Love?
Hurts more.
But silence?
Silence?
That’ll **** you slow.
A death of nothingness.
A breath that never comes.
An empty scream.
Whisper
“I can’t.”
An endless howl,
that’s all that remains.
But it’s nothing,
isn’t it?

Wait
together?
There’s strength in the unspoken,
strength in the unseen.
It’s the flicker of a light
in the cracks,
the silence between the thunder.
Where your heart beats
where it beats
start there.
Don’t wait for permission,
don’t wait for love.
You teach it.
You hold the brush,
the sculptor’s tool,
and you make.

Doubt.
It carves you
sharp.
Like glass,
like a knife to your ribs.
Stop thinking,
stop carving your own scars.
You’re not a sentence,
you’re not a conclusion.
You’re the story.
Not the ending.
Not the ghost.

There’s a myth
A myth.
That says you’re less than enough.
That says you’re small,
that says you can’t.
It’s a lie.
A shattered lie.
A myth that crumbles
in the face of your truth.
You—you—are the universe.
Each cell.
Each breath.
Each step
a new galaxy.
Bursting.
Exploding.
You are the spark
that lights the fire,
the ember
that burns down everything
they thought you were.

What if you believed
what if
you believed in the beat of your chest?
The rhythm of your bones?
The pulse of life that screams
in every inch of you?
What if you believed
you’re more than the cage
they built around you?
What if you realized
you’re the song?
You’re the melody
that breaks the silence.

You
You
are not the thought.
Not the chains.
Not the scars.
Not the voices.
You’re the music.
You’re the crash of cymbals,
the rise of the string,
the pulse in the drum
that shakes the world.
Don’t let them decide who you are.
You decide.
You—you—are the rhythm.

Stop waiting.
For what?
For who?
The world will not open doors for you.
It’s not the door
that you’re waiting for.
You’ve got the key.
It’s always been in your hands.
Unlock it.
Break it down.
Create your own path
no map,
no guide.
You—you—hold the world
in your palms.
Now make it,
Take it,
Break it,
Make it your own.

Go.
Move.
The masterpiece is inside.
It’s not waiting,
not on hold.
It’s here.
Right now.
And you
you are the one who paints it.