Pulse of the Poem

I write in the hum of a half-beat prayer,

In the crack of the sky and the cold night air,

With syllables slipping through static and strife,

My pen is a drum, and my pain is a fife.

I don’t sing sweet, I spit soul instead,

Bassline truths that were born half dead,

Syncopated silence, breath between lines,

Each word like a footstep marking lost time.

This is not music you hear on the charts,

It’s the echo of heartbeats, breaking in parts.

A hymn for the haunted, a verse for the void,

Where rhythm is raw, and rhyme is employed.

So turn up the quiet, let the stillness bend,

Poetry is the beat we don't pretend.

It’s blood in the ink, it's scars in the flow

A melody only the real ones know.