I write like the ink might ignite in my grip,
like the page is a fuse and I’m tight on the tip.
Like silence is violence that crawls through my skin,
and each word I spit is a fight that I win.
I been carved by the cold,
ghostwritten in grief,
my chapters got blood on the margins and teeth.
I don’t bleed for applause or beg for a trend—
I bleed ‘cause I must
and I will
‘til the end.
II. (Double-time flip – intensity rise)
Y’all been mistaking the poet for peaceful,
I’m lethal—
each bar is a needle,
stitching the pain to the people.
Ain’t no steeple in this gospel,
this is inkblot war,
my notebook’s a cage match—
I roar when I pour.
They told me,
“Put down the pen, get a job, make rent,”
but my truth don’t fold, and my soul won’t bend.
I don’t write for the likes,
I write ‘cause I live
with a flame in my chest
and a voice that forgives—
but don’t forget.
Nah.
Never that.
Every scratch in the pad’s where the pressure sat.
III. (Bridge – mid-tempo grit, like pacing before a storm)
I seen bullets in verses,
trauma in stanzas,
love get murdered
then buried in banter.
And still—I kept scribing,
surviving the riot,
while cowards went quiet
I sharpened my science.
IV. (Final verse – sharp clarity, relentless conviction)
So don’t ask me to stop,
I got ink in my veins,
I got plots in my scars
and resistance in chains.
Every letter’s a blade,
every poem a sin
against silence—
I’m loud where the end might begin.
I’ll be scribblin’ bars at the gates of the void,
when the stars burn out and the world’s destroyed,
you’ll find my bones with a Bic in my hand,
still etching out truth
in the ash of this land.
I’ll never put down my pen.
It’s not just how I write.
It’s how I fight.
It’s how I breathe.
It’s how I win.