The night—my sacred altar,

A temple that keeps leading me.

The waters—my home,

Calling me back with every tide.

The moon—a compass,

Always guiding,

And the wind pushing me gently forward,

Whispering, "You are God. Know yourself."

The serpent within coils softly,

Calling me back to self.

Pastors curse me by name—

So what if I’m the devil incarnate?

You can worship;

I’ll delve—

Deep into spirit, into mind,

Unleashing what they tried to bind.

They thought they buried me,

But I was only seeded.

My power was never lost—

Only silenced.

No more chains.

My only crime?

Being born divine,

A nobility they couldn’t corrupt,

Unless they twisted fate,

Cursed our bloodlines,

Crippled us at the knees,

Then praised us for being "humble"—

As if a God could ever kneel

Before lowlife kings.

Scavengers—

Starving for power,

Never wisdom.

Greedy mouths

Feasting on fear.

And here I sit,

On a throne built of mud—

The same mud they called “primitive,”

While their pearly gates crumble.

You know the saying:

What goes around comes around.

I could scream, “Well, took you long enough!”

But I won’t.

I honor divine timing.

True knowledge isn’t threatened

By fabricated truths,

Or misinterpreted scriptures.

I wear the truth in my skin,

It flows through my blood,

It’s etched in my bones,

And written in my soul.

I knew—

Even before they called me “mad,”

Diagnosed and drugged me.

Still, I knew.

And that knowing?

Untouchable.

I am

The weapon my ancestors whispered into existence,

A prayer

Given breath and rhythm.

The art is sacred.

The craft—

Impeccable.

This is divine creativity.

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