I write poems

because all things are in motion —
not by the ticking of a clock,
but by the pulse of becoming.

Each word I pen
is a seed rooting in the present,
its branches reaching into being.

I write to witness the word unfold,
to feel potential spill into form;
not waiting for time to pass,
but watching each moment crackle alive.

A poem blooms because it must,
like a rose that blossoms without reason.
I write for the same cause —
because I must,
because the words compel me,
because they bloom from within.

I’m not chasing a future,
nor sifting through the past.
I write because the act itself
is the unfolding of my being,
each letter drawn
from the only place it can be:
here, in this eternal present,
where change forever lives,
where becoming never ends.

The poem breathes
because the universe itself
moves not through time
but through its own essence.

And in that movement,
I find my words.