`a quiet, feral burn `
Cries without a name—
Painful silence that threatens
raw release of truths
— a poet
18 June 2025
Artist Credits © JNM 🇺🇸
`a poet `
Digital Art W/ Painterly Effect
Textured Background
Source : ™a Mind's Eye
Year: 2025
[THOUGHTS of PROSE]
Before the world asked me to be anything, before it tried to press names upon my chest or drape me in titles like they were earned through repetition, I was a poet. Not in the polished sense, not with laurels or applause, but with the quiet violence of someone who bleeds into the page. I have scrawled my gratitude, my grievances, my ghosts across paper as if they were scripture —the raw release of my truths.
There’s no glory in it. No applause when your hands shake from remembering. But there’s a hollowing, searing euphoria that hits the moment ink scars paper and something inside you unknots. That moment when silence breaks into language, when pain finds a shape, even if the shape is jagged. That’s the quiet, feral burn I speak of. Not the celebratory kind, but the sharpedened edged, soul-bared kind. The kind you shout into a void just to know you’re still here.
This isn’t catharsis gifted from above, it’s a ritual of survival. I wasn’t taught this. I clawed it out from inside me, dragged it from the shadows where memory festers, where grief toyed on old joy. That’s where my poetry lives. In the dim corners, in the ruins. Every line is a map through those dark recesses. Every stanza, an argument with the silence that threatens to devour me.
My fire, has never been golden. It was a quiet, feral burn. A kindling of sorrow and unrest, it just needed paper, always paper.
These words I write, they are confession, they are breath. They are the scream I never learned to exhale. And even now, even after all I’ve lost or buried or pretended to survive, I still darken the page. Not for legacy. Not for love. But because this is who I am, because before I learned how to lie, to them, to myself; I told the truth in poems, with a quiet, feral burn.
[INSPIRATION]
"You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts."
— Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
Painful silence that threatens
raw release of truths
— a poet
18 June 2025
Artist Credits © JNM 🇺🇸
`a poet `
Digital Art W/ Painterly Effect
Textured Background
Source : ™a Mind's Eye
Year: 2025
[THOUGHTS of PROSE]
Before the world asked me to be anything, before it tried to press names upon my chest or drape me in titles like they were earned through repetition, I was a poet. Not in the polished sense, not with laurels or applause, but with the quiet violence of someone who bleeds into the page. I have scrawled my gratitude, my grievances, my ghosts across paper as if they were scripture —the raw release of my truths.
There’s no glory in it. No applause when your hands shake from remembering. But there’s a hollowing, searing euphoria that hits the moment ink scars paper and something inside you unknots. That moment when silence breaks into language, when pain finds a shape, even if the shape is jagged. That’s the quiet, feral burn I speak of. Not the celebratory kind, but the sharpedened edged, soul-bared kind. The kind you shout into a void just to know you’re still here.
This isn’t catharsis gifted from above, it’s a ritual of survival. I wasn’t taught this. I clawed it out from inside me, dragged it from the shadows where memory festers, where grief toyed on old joy. That’s where my poetry lives. In the dim corners, in the ruins. Every line is a map through those dark recesses. Every stanza, an argument with the silence that threatens to devour me.
My fire, has never been golden. It was a quiet, feral burn. A kindling of sorrow and unrest, it just needed paper, always paper.
These words I write, they are confession, they are breath. They are the scream I never learned to exhale. And even now, even after all I’ve lost or buried or pretended to survive, I still darken the page. Not for legacy. Not for love. But because this is who I am, because before I learned how to lie, to them, to myself; I told the truth in poems, with a quiet, feral burn.
[INSPIRATION]
"You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts."
— Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
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