My poems aren’t answers — they’re echoes of what refused to die in silence.

They ask what my poems mean.
I say —
they’re what’s left
after I stop pretending.

Each line is a scar
I turned into sound.
Each metaphor
a wound that refused silence.

I don’t write to impress.
I write to survive the echo.

If you read them right,
you’ll see smoke,
blood,
and something holy
that crawled out of both.

Don’t look for beauty.
Look for truth —
the kind that trembles
and still stands.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Vazago