Heart and soul come first, before pen ever meets the page,

Hurt tucked behind the ribs, that low ache you learn to carry.

Every scar turns into a syllable if you listen close enough,

Echoes of what broke you still knocking like they want back in.

A rhythm lives in my skull, constant as breath,

A kick drum pacing my thoughts when the room goes quiet.

Raw stories spill easier when I stop chasing perfection,

Real life don’t always rhyme, but it always tells the truth.

Trauma teaches timing — when to pause, when to strike,

Teaches silence is just another bar in the song.

Beat by beat, I build poems instead of walls,

Blood pumping ink through my fingertips, line by line.

Even nonsense makes sense when it comes from the chest,

Even broken phrases can stand if they stand honest.

Acrostics happen without warning, letters lining up like fate,

As if the page already knew what I was trying to say.

This isn’t about polish — it’s about pulse,

Truth hitting paper the same way it hits my heart.