When He made me, He handed me a pen.
He spoke into existence my "writing into being."
Hence the name, "Prophetic poet"

He made them man and me, a wordsmith,
and saw that all was good.
The two became one, me and my pen.

I write when I am crying,
the pen tears through wet paper,
Leaking truths my chest can't hold.

I write when I am laughing,
the contractions of my ribs shake in ink,
Carelessly pouring out joy in scribbles.

I write when I love,
oh, I write when I love!
I bring the world kneeling before the altar of feelings,
I could sculpt a heartbeat,
and make desire visible on a page.

I would explode with intensity
if I never knew how to write about passion.
This soul of mine would scream,
refusing to remain unexpressed.