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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The nib scrapes the page like hiking boots on river rock. Not for fame—that ghost dissolves in tea-stained mornings. Nor for catharsis' loot, though confessional steam sometimes evolves into verse. No. It's the hunger: that sly ache when streetlight bleeds on wet asphalt, and you taste copper on your tongue, awake to the hum in telephone wires—a vault of unsaid things. You become conduit, antenna trembling for static's raw hymn~ translating the fracture: how grief sounds when it hits marble; how laughter thins at the rim of an empty glass. Each poem is a compass needle swinging wildly—not toward truth, but the why beneath broken sidewalks—the sacred needle piercing silence allowing the dark sky to cry.
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