Today I reflect upon a King making declarations from the mountaintop. Today I marinate in the art of this world in the wake of deep and regrettable loss. For, in feeling heard, it is my jaw that drops, and a flowing heart of stone gathers moss.

For, if there were no plays, I would not act. If there were no concerts, I would not sing. But even if I was dropped on an island far from this beaten track, unable to bring a journal or a pen, my will would burn again and again, and it wouldn’t change a thing.

I would still be a poet. For as long as I’m alive, I’ll have ink in my veins. As long as I’m alive, my skin will begin to tell stories of pains. For I will always find something to write with, even if I have to cut myself to do it. And I will always find something to write on, even if there’s no one else around who knew it. And, I will always recite what is written aloud, as my bottled message is throttled at the sky. Not because I am proud, but because it is always my reason why.

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