Not Trying to Be Seen, But Refusing to Hide

I don’t need your attention. Keep it.
Spend it on influencers and your morning affirmations.
I’ve got no interest in performing sanity for people who think silence is awkward and vulnerability is weak.

I’m not trying to be seen.
But I’ll be goddamned if I keep hiding.

Because hiding is a slow suicide.
It’s not safety—it’s erosion.
It's biting your tongue until the blood tastes like etiquette.

I’ve done my time.
I’ve worn the fucking mask.
I’ve laughed when I wanted to scream, apologized when I should have burned bridges, and played the amiable chameleon just to keep everyone comfortable.

But the thing about masks?
You wear them long enough and you forget what your real face looks like.

And mine’s not pretty.
It’s carved by grief. Etched with regret.
Weathered by the kind of guilt that lingers long after the funeral, long after the casket closes, long after the people who said “let me know if you need anything” have moved on with their happy little lives.

I’m not here for your comfort.
I’m not here for your applause.
And I sure as shit am not here to explain myself to anyone who hasn’t buried half their family and lived to make art about it.

See, I’m not building a brand.
I’m building a bonfire.
And if it scorches your expectations, good.
Maybe you’ll finally feel something.

The truth? I wanted to be liked.
Desperately.
I wanted to be invited, included, nodded at like a good boy who knows how to behave at the table.

But what’s the point of being liked if you’re not you?

I used to tailor myself to the people in front of me like I was auditioning for the part of "acceptable human."
Now? I don’t audition. I don’t perform.
I show up. And if that’s too much—look away.

This world rewards the polished and the palatable.
I’m neither.

I’m jagged edges and smoke damage.
I’m bad posture and good sentences.
I’m the guy you underestimate until I open my mouth.
And by then, it’s too late—I’m already under your skin.

I don’t need the whole room to understand me.
Just one person with a pulse and a memory and a reason to keep going.

Because I’m not here to inspire.
I’m here to survive.
And if my survival sounds like poetry, it's because I bled on the page and didn’t wipe it clean.

I'm not trying to be seen.
But I won’t apologize for standing in the light.
Not anymore.

And if you think I’m too loud, too raw, too much?
Good.

That means you’re still alive enough to feel something.
Don’t waste it.