a writer’s purpose?
to serve the writer first.
before the noise.
before the forced polish,
before the sugarcoated captions that starve your truth.
writing is the fire escape.
the late-night crawl through your own ribcage
just to prove you’re still in there, breathing.
it’s not curated.
it’s not for sale.
it’s what’s left after the cyclone.
when you’ve only got stubby pencils,
an old tin table,
and whatever scraps of memory didn’t blow away.
i don’t write to be clean.
i write because if i don’t,
i start to vanish.
this isn’t productivity.
it’s preservation.
it’s a blunt knife, not a feather.
it’s stitching a voice back into your throat
after years of swallowing dust and being told to smile through it.
my truth doesn’t wear makeup.
it’s all cracked lips and sunburnt shoulders.
it walks barefoot on bitumen and calls that healing.
for the first time,
i’m not mimicking someone else’s rhythm.
not asking permission to feel things deeply or say them ugly.
this voice?
it snarls.
it stumbles.
it stains the page.
and if only a few souls ever read it
if just one person stops scrolling and feels it
that’s enough.
because this work?
it keeps me well.
it keeps me real when the world begs for an edited version.
i don’t build to impress.
i build like fungus in the dark
quiet, relentless, connected.
this is the work of the underside.
the unseen.
the small, wild rituals that keep the spirit fed.
so no
it’s not performance.
it’s pulse.
it’s the dirt under your fingernails kind of art.
and i wouldn’t trade it
for anything more sterile.