Before I began to write poetry, I dissected song lyrics like a curious surgeon. Each syllable, each note—my scalpel. I sought the marrow of meaning, the pulse beneath the melody. My red spiral notebook, a confessional, cradled their verses. Milton Nascimento, Tom Jobim and Chico Buarque—maestros of language. Their words, like benevolent ghosts, whispered secrets across the pages. But oh, how they sat there, perched on the paper, their hearts masquerading as eyes. Big, bubbly letters, innocent as children, yet they knew not their own power. I absorbed them, these syllables, these notes. They seeped under my skin, mingling with … Continue reading Ink and Veins