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I am…
Designer by day,
Poet by heart,
Sketching dreams on deadlines
And bleeding truth into bars after dark.
I don’t just clock in —
I create in color
While the grayscale of my mind
Tries to pull me under.
But nah, I ain’t drowning —
I’ve learned to swim through the noise,
To sculpt the pain,
To paint with the broken pieces
And make beauty from the strain.
See—
I’m a first-gen soul,
Walking on sidewalks poured
By hands that never got to walk them.
I carry their hope in my stride
And their struggle in my spine.
I got scars you’ll never see,
But they taught me how to shine.
Anxiety?
We’ve danced.
Depression?
We’ve slow-dragged through sleepless nights.
PTSD whispered war songs
In moments that should’ve been quiet.
And bipolar?
He’s that old friend with mood swings
Who shows up uninvited.
But still, I rise.
Not because I’m unshaken —
But because I keep moving.
Still here. Still choosing.
Still bruised, but not losing.
I don’t numb no more —
I bake.
Pound cake, sweet like the prayers of my grandmother,
Soft like the hug I needed last week
But didn’t know how to ask for.
I write now —
Pain into poetry,
Mood swings into metaphors,
Bad days into blog posts
So deep they hit like gospel.
Movies, music, writing —
They ain’t escapes.
They’re life support.
Each song, a breath.
Each film, a mirror.
Each poem, a resurrection.
And my dog?
Yeah, he don’t judge when I fall apart.
He just lays by my side like,
“Bro, fall if you need to — I’m still here.”
That’s love.
No conditions.
No masks.
Just presence.
That’s something most people can’t give.
My heart?
She’s been cracked open and patched up with grace.
She forgives before she understands.
She feels too much sometimes,
But I’d rather bleed than be numb.
And church?
It ain’t tradition —
It’s therapy with hallelujahs.
It’s where I sit in the back row
And let God hold the parts of me
That I keep too fragile to share.
And when my voice shakes?
I speak anyway.
Because silence is heavy,
And I’ve carried enough weight.
I am rebuilding —
Not from rubble,
But from remembrance.
Every piece of me
Is a page in a book
I’m still learning to love.
Still healing.
Still here.
Still rising —
Not like smoke,
But like a phoenix
With ink on its feathers
And fire in its soul.
So if you ask me who I am?
I’m not a survivor.
I’m a creator.
A warrior with words.
A baker of comfort.
A son of struggle.
A testimony in motion.
I’m not perfect,
But I am present.
And that’s enough for today.
That’s enough to say —
I’m still rising.
Even on the days
I forget how to fly
Martytalks Daliy 