The Origin

The first time I kissed someone, it was with a metaphor.
The first time I fought back, it was with a story.

They tried to clean me up.
Put him in ties and boxes.
Told me to write nice things for nice people.

But I didn’t come here to be nice.
I came to make your soul itch.

I spent years hiding in plain sight
working jobs that dimmed my flame,
biting my tongue until it bled ink,
swallowing fire just to keep the peace.

Then one day, I snapped.

Not with a shout.
Not with a fist.
With a pen.
With a truth.
With a voice that cracked open the silence like thunder through stained glass.

Since then, I’ve written like a man possessed.
By ghosts. By lust. By purpose.
I’ve turned pain into poetry.
Rage into rhythm.
And made art out of every scar I refused to hide.

I’m not here to fit in.
I’m here to stand out.
To stir you up.
To make you feel something dangerous.

I arrived too much.
And the world’s been adjusting to my volume ever since.

– Creed Saint

Atlanta, GA.