I am no redeemed man. I am no beggar.
I am the one who did not fall, I descended, willingly
to stay true where others lie.
My skin is not decoration.
It is chronicle. Each line a vow. Each scar a “Yes.”
Not to the world, but to my path through it.
I do not believe in salvation.
I believe in presence with teeth.
In responsibility without spectators.
In autonomy that bleeds, but stands.
My tattoos are not fashion.
They are armor, weapon, totem.
They do not say, “I was beautiful”, they say: “I was there.
I did not kneel.
I looked back.”
When I go, no heaven will burst open.
But maybe an echo will remain
in ink, in son, in scream.
And that is enough. Because this is my faith:
That one human being is enough.
If he is whole.
I carry rage inside me. Not as a burden, but as inheritance.
It had my back when the world stayed silent.
My power is not possession.
It is a blade I pulled myself, from my own throat.
Not to rule.
But to show:
I am not quiet.
Art is my language.
Not for decoration, but for compression.
Each line I draw, each word I carve, each sound I let vibrate
is a reclamation.
I believe in the human who belongs to himself.
Who would rather burn than bend.
Who would rather stay silent than sell out.
Who would rather die than betray himself.
I am Goldsonne.
Not a light for all.
But a fire for those who recognize.