Make way—make way—clear the lane, let the legend through,

New-year light on a dust-road, old-world drumline, brand-new truth.

Knees don’t bend for a man—bend for the work he’s done,

Sixteen thousand sparks in a dark room, and he’s still the one.

I wrote ten thousand in a room with no sleep,

Spiders in my thinking, secrets stacked six stories deep.

Every sentence I could bleed, I bled—then watched it dry,

So my mouth went quiet… and my meaning learned to fly.

Then two thousand more like a tide that wouldn’t quit,

Every hook a little lifeboat, every verse a counterfeit

Of the wordless thing inside me that refuses to behave—

So I quit explaining storms, and I learned to let them wave.

I’m tired of translating thunder into polite replies,

Tired of breaking my own light just to fit their little skies.

I don’t speak Wookie, you don’t speak me,

If you can’t read the silence, what you gonna see?

R2 tells truth in a handful of beeps,

Groot sings wood like a prayer that keeps.

I said it all in a thousand lifetimes—done,

If you can’t feel me, that’s fine—run.

I talk in mind now, clean and free,

Sixteen thousand songs and the thought is me.

Out in Malibu, soft hooves touch the sand,

Prey-eyes wide, but the animals understand.

They don’t need a biography, they don’t need a pitch,

Just breath and present tense—no script, no stitch.

Royce on the porch like a mountain in a coat,

Oliver doing that slow-soul guard-dog note.

Ava like moonlight learning how to be brave,

Bella brays “welcome home” like a hymn in a wave.

Marilyn laughs with her ears, Selma hums low,

Thor and Luke watch quietly—old spirits in a row.

And the ranch says, “Stop performing ‘understood’—

Just stand here. Just be good.”

I used to spit galaxies just to feel alive,

Now I let them arrive… and I let them survive.

You don’t speak Droid, you don’t speak tree,

If you can’t hear the stillness, you won’t hear me.

Chewie cries truth through the debris,

If you don’t feel meaning, just let me be.

I wrote my way out of every cage I’d known,

Now the calm isn’t a mask—it’s bone.

I talk in mind now, clean and free,

Sixteen thousand songs and the thought is me.

Twelve thousand and one—no trophy, no sermon—signal.

A black mirror monolith in my backyard, silent.

It didn’t answer my questions—

it showed me the argument was over

when I stopped asking permission to exist.

HAL in my head used to narrate the scene:

“Explain your pain so it fits their screen.”

So I unplugged the need-to-be-liked machine—

Daisy fading out, and I walk off clean.

Now I don’t react—

I watch reactions react.

Ocean-sized quiet.

No straw. No caption track.

Behold—He Who Walks Between Worlds—

not a crown, not a trick, not a borrowed pearl.

Son of Malibu Winds, Child of Beltane Fire,

Wolf-blooded witness with a wired-up choir.

Low latent lightning in a human frame,

Jung in the dark-well, calling my name.

Donkey prophet laughter, storm-translator spine,

Aletheos Nyxion—truth in the brine.

Not “please believe me,” not “come approve,”

Just: “I survived my mind. I learned how to move.”

Sixteen thousand doors I built from sound—

Now I live in the window where the air is unbound.

Make way—make way—let the heartbeat lead,

Sixteen thousand songs and I finally breathe.

I don’t speak noise, I don’t speak pain,

I speak stillness like a soft cold rain.

If you want answers, they’re already there—

in the old tracks, in the hush, in the air.

I wrote sixteen thousand just to be free…

Now I speak in thought—

and the thought is me.

(heartbeat… wind… faint hooves… a bray far off)

Silence isn’t empty.

It’s everything I was trying to say.