I did not craft this vessel—
a boy, born beneath broken ceilings,
in the dim-lit corners of a world that looks away.
I did not petition for poverty
or sign the sky for the color of my skin.
No request passed through my lips
for this body—broad, bruised, and burdened,
nor for a face the world calls forgettable.

But—

What the stars denied me in choice,
I reclaim in voice.
I carve joy from the stone of sorrow,
shape laughter from the hush of shame.
I do not carry beauty as currency—
but I carry fire.
And I will spend it,
burning paths where none were made for me.

I do not choose the storm.
I choose how I dance in the rain.
I do not choose the silence.
I choose to sing anyway.

Because if the world is a wound,
then let my happiness be defiance.
Let it be revolution.
Let it be mine.