In nine years — those nine years ago, where it all first bled, my hand
chased after words like birds startled into flight; each letter a feather
I tried to hold, each silence, a wing that trembled. These fingers ran
that day — still running, from the moment ink first called my name.
Less of a speech, more a prayer pressed through assembly lines of
thought; for the soul is not a factory, but a forge — and every verse I
hammered, sparked and seared another part of me alive. Like a leaf
falling in love mid-air, I found gravity too gentle to fear; I fell, I wrote,
and somewhere before hitting the ground I truly learned that _leaving_
and _leafing_ were the same thing: growth disguised as a humble descent.
I could never leave the pen alone, though sometimes I’d put it down,
just long enough to hear it whisper back, "Are we really done, or just
beginning?" And so I’d wait — for new trees to rise from the mulch
of old ideas, roots feeding on yesterday’s failures, branches reaching
toward an unwritten sky.
Nine years — and I, the son of my own beginnings, a poet, a writer,
a craftsman made of paper cuts and persistence. Now my body is the
parchment, my breath the ink; I left fingerprints in every stanza as if
to remind myself — __I was here!__ To leave this body, and to leave this
breath, is not to die, but to scatter — to bleed into every margin of the
world. And when the last drop dries, they’ll still find me pressed
between these pages, a ghost of graphite and grace.
Nine years ago, I met the pen — and it said to me, "Take my hand,
and believe." And I did. And I still do. Every line since has been
proof of that promise.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 4:54 PM UTC
In nine years — those nine years ago, where it all first bled, my hand
chased after words like birds startled into flight; each letter a feather
I tried to hold, each silence, a wing that trembled. These fingers ran
that day — still running, from the moment ink first called my name.
Less of a speech, more a prayer pressed through assembly lines of
thought; for the soul is not a factory, but a forge — and every verse I
hammered, sparked and seared another part of me alive. Like a leaf
falling in love mid-air, I found gravity too gentle to fear; I fell, I wrote,
and somewhere before hitting the ground I truly learned that _leaving_
and _leafing_ were the same thing: growth disguised as a humble descent.
I could never leave the pen alone, though sometimes I’d put it down,
just long enough to hear it whisper back, "Are we really done, or just
beginning?" And so I’d wait — for new trees to rise from the mulch
of old ideas, roots feeding on yesterday’s failures, branches reaching
toward an unwritten sky.
Nine years — and I, the son of my own beginnings, a poet, a writer,
a craftsman made of paper cuts and persistence. Now my body is the
parchment, my breath the ink; I left fingerprints in every stanza as if
to remind myself — __I was here!__ To leave this body, and to leave this
breath, is not to die, but to scatter — to bleed into every margin of the
world. And when the last drop dries, they’ll still find me pressed
between these pages, a ghost of graphite and grace.
Nine years ago, I met the pen — and it said to me, "Take my hand,
and believe." And I did. And I still do. Every line since has been
proof of that promise.
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