I do not write for applause.
I write because silence
becomes too heavy.

The words press against me
with a tide that will not be denied.
They arrive in whispers,
in midnight tremors,
in screams and tears and in the soft
ache of a morning sky.

Without them, I am hollow,
an unstruck bell,
a page left blank.
Empty.

So I write to breathe,
to pour out what would drown me,
to plant my sorrow and wonder
and watch them bloom like flowers.

It is not by choice.
It is a pulse.
A compulsion.
A salvation.
An addiction
that makes me whole.
It’s part of who I am.