They quoted his words
until the meaning bled dry,
neat ink circles
around madness they never met.

I walked where his echo began—
in the split between love and loathing,
in the moment knowledge
turned to noise.

They call it philosophy.
I call it the night
when silence refused to obey.

I didn’t study his scream;
I answered it.
I tore the calm in half
and found my own name
written in the noise.

Now they ask what I learned.
Nothing they’d grade.
Only that pain,
when spoken truthfully,
becomes prayer.