The Pulse That Outlives Me
Since I was small,
my hands have itched
for the weight of something new,
the warm breath of an idea
still wet from birth.
While others chased nights
strung with music and lights,
I chased the hum beneath my ribs—
that low, holy vibration
that says: Make. Make. Make.
I am not afraid of death—
only of silence,
of the stillness that comes
when the last word dries,
when the last color fades
from my palette.
Some people fear missing the party.
I fear missing the next
perfect shiver of creation,
the one that seizes my spine
like lightning,
the one that says:
Here. This is yours. Make it real
before it slips away forever.
Even as a child,
I knew my bones would be dust one day.
But a poem—
a song,
a shadow on film,
a brushstroke on canvas—
that could outlive me.
That could keep my voice
whispering in the ears of strangers
long after my name is forgotten.
So I make.
I bleed ink.
I sweat pigment.
I dream in shapes and sounds.
Every piece is a fragment
of the monument I am building
to outlast my pulse.
And when I am gone,
let them find my works
scattered like constellations—
each one a flare I sent into the dark,
each one still burning,
still warm,
still breathing my name.
https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149
Since I was small,
my hands have itched
for the weight of something new,
the warm breath of an idea
still wet from birth.
While others chased nights
strung with music and lights,
I chased the hum beneath my ribs—
that low, holy vibration
that says: Make. Make. Make.
I am not afraid of death—
only of silence,
of the stillness that comes
when the last word dries,
when the last color fades
from my palette.
Some people fear missing the party.
I fear missing the next
perfect shiver of creation,
the one that seizes my spine
like lightning,
the one that says:
Here. This is yours. Make it real
before it slips away forever.
Even as a child,
I knew my bones would be dust one day.
But a poem—
a song,
a shadow on film,
a brushstroke on canvas—
that could outlive me.
That could keep my voice
whispering in the ears of strangers
long after my name is forgotten.
So I make.
I bleed ink.
I sweat pigment.
I dream in shapes and sounds.
Every piece is a fragment
of the monument I am building
to outlast my pulse.
And when I am gone,
let them find my works
scattered like constellations—
each one a flare I sent into the dark,
each one still burning,
still warm,
still breathing my name.
https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149
The Pulse That Outlives Me
Since I was small,
my hands have itched
for the weight of something new,
the warm breath of an idea
still wet from birth.
While others chased nights
strung with music and lights,
I chased the hum beneath my ribs—
that low, holy vibration
that says: Make. Make. Make.
I am not afraid of death—
only of silence,
of the stillness that comes
when the last word dries,
when the last color fades
from my palette.
Some people fear missing the party.
I fear missing the next
perfect shiver of creation,
the one that seizes my spine
like lightning,
the one that says:
Here. This is yours. Make it real
before it slips away forever.
Even as a child,
I knew my bones would be dust one day.
But a poem—
a song,
a shadow on film,
a brushstroke on canvas—
that could outlive me.
That could keep my voice
whispering in the ears of strangers
long after my name is forgotten.
So I make.
I bleed ink.
I sweat pigment.
I dream in shapes and sounds.
Every piece is a fragment
of the monument I am building
to outlast my pulse.
And when I am gone,
let them find my works
scattered like constellations—
each one a flare I sent into the dark,
each one still burning,
still warm,
still breathing my name.
https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149
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