I hear them—
the sheep in their scripted refrain:
"Lower your gaze. Stay in your lane.
Blend with the flock, bury your flame—
No need for thunder. No need for name."
But I remember the ones who walked unbowed,
Eyes like storms,
souls too loud.
They taught me not to kneel, but rise,
To tear the silence,
to scorch the skies.
Don’t flow like water through cracks they choose,
A shape that fits
is a self you lose.
Be wind—ravenous, rough, untamed,
A force with no leash,
no master,
no name.
If they seal you in a space too tight,
Too small for soul,
too dim for light—
Split it open. Let rage ignite.
Turn your whisper into a war-cry flight.
This is your voice:
not meek, not borrowed.
A sun that sears
through every sorrow.
If breath still burns within your chest,
Roar, rebel—
be nothing less.
Carve your path through dusk and scar.
You are the blaze.
You are the star.