The Weight of My Own Hands

 I breathe in ash and starlight,

my lungs stitched shut with threads of longing.

Every pulse inside me whispers: create, create,

as though eternity itself would vanish

if I set down my brush, my pen, my song.

The joy is a fever—

it burns through the marrow,

each idea a flame licking the walls of my ribs.

I am radiant in the fire,

but oh, how it consumes me.

When stillness comes,

when silence settles on the table,

I drown in its gravity—

a crushing tide pressing on my chest,

reminding me that without the act of making,

I am only clay,

mortal, unfinished.

And yet, I reach again for the weight,

choose suffocation over emptiness.

Because even as it strangles,

creation sings me awake—

and in the pain of it,

I feel most alive.