The Pulse That Outlives Me

Since I was small,

my hands have itched

for the weight of something new,

the warm breath of an idea

still wet from birth.

While others chased nights

strung with music and lights,

I chased the hum beneath my ribs—

that low, holy vibration

that says: Make. Make. Make.

I am not afraid of death—

only of silence,

of the stillness that comes

when the last word dries,

when the last color fades

from my palette.

Some people fear missing the party.

I fear missing the next

perfect shiver of creation,

the one that seizes my spine

like lightning,

the one that says:

Here. This is yours. Make it real

before it slips away forever.

Even as a child,

I knew my bones would be dust one day.

But a poem—

a song,

a shadow on film,

a brushstroke on canvas—

that could outlive me.

That could keep my voice

whispering in the ears of strangers

long after my name is forgotten.

So I make.

I bleed ink.

I sweat pigment.

I dream in shapes and sounds.

Every piece is a fragment

of the monument I am building

to outlast my pulse.

And when I am gone,

let them find my works

scattered like constellations—

each one a flare I sent into the dark,

each one still burning,

still warm,

still breathing my name.