We can’t remain still— 

that silence hardens, a quiet kill, 

where thought turns circles, 

and sorrow becomes a mask we wear.

 There is a season to bind the wound, 

to sit with ache, to tend what’s bruised, 

but then— we must rise, 

even limping toward the light, 

seeking a spark that whispers: 

you are alive. 

For you carry fire— 

not the kind that merely warms,

 but the kind that questions, 

reshapes the world it touches. 

You read the fine print of life, 

you catch the rhythm in a punk refrain, 

you do not rest in shadows.

You move. You ask. You rebuild.

 So— what step will you take? 

Will you carve a path of creation, 

draw strategy from flame,

or let the fire pour out in raw, cathartic song?

 The future waits, 

and it waits for your hands.