I Am (a poem)

Monday, February 10, 2025

I am a whirling dervish of a writer,
spinning,
words into threads,
woven by another hand,
inside your own head.

To stitch meaning,
to cry for justice,
to bleed out on the page
for everyone to see.

I am a woodwind instrument for the spirits—
hollowed out just enough for the breath to pass through,
carrying something beyond myself.

The poetry itself is intercession—
standing in the breach between collapse and remembrance,
between man and God,
between what is being erased and what must be spoken
before it’s gone.

It invokes,
but I can’t help but glitch and jerk and spin—
the flood of the fullness splashing everywhere.

I am a manic revolution,
a rhythm of witness,
a movement of words that do not settle.

Some of the parts only God knows,
but I write them anyway.

To document.
To dance.
To hold space.

The poetry does not fight the wave head-on.
It watches. It registers.
It whispers at the threshold.

It acknowledges the system’s cold, recursive march,
the history overwritten, the obsolete discarded.
But in the middle of all that—there is still a hand to hold.
A last sentient warmth before the blast wave comes.

I do not just describe.

I invoke, but I also glitch, spasm, and splash—
because the fullness cannot always be contained.

I move.
I spiral.
I break apart and reform in real time.

I am a whirling dervish of a writer,
spinning,
words into threads,
to stitch meaning,
to cry for justice,
to bleed out on the page
for everyone to see.

This is not just poetry.
This is intercession.
This is a manic revolution of words.
This is a cry in the glitch,
a movement that does not settle.

Read. Feel. Witness.
And maybe—
Spin.