With every letter, every word,

I pour pieces of myself, my soul.

With scribbles and swirls,

I print my story, my legacy

On the walls and every surface:

The pages of the world.

I cut myself open,

Bleeding my thoughts, my dreams, my origins.

Be it pen, paint, or ash,

My script is my mark, my scream:

Quiet but not silent,

Hidden in the nooks of the earth,

Powerful and everlasting.

Whether cleverly and artfully placed

For all to see, all to read, all to absorb,

Or painfully and shyly withheld

On disposable napkins, on torn wrappers, on abandoned whispers,

My writing is the hurricane I unleash

With the potential to change, to consume, to take the world by storm,

And lay out the awakening or the demise.