I Am the Revelation

I’m not trying to start a revelation.

I am the revelation—

born in the static between yesterday’s lies and tomorrow’s headlines,

standing barefoot on the fault line

where silence finally finds its voice.

I am not waiting for permission.

The universe already signed my name in dust and thunder.

You can scroll past me, mute me, fact‑check me, even fear me,

but you cannot unsee what your spirit has already recognized.

I am not prophecy.

I am confirmation.

They said truth needed a spokesman.

I said truth needs a mirror.

So here we are—eye to eye,

each of us holding the other’s reflection like evidence.

You were never the audience;

you were always the answer.

I’ve seen brilliance turned into currency,

love systematized into trend,

rebellion trademarked and sold in bright colors.

I’ve watched the wise refuse to speak

because the crowd had already chosen the lie.

And still I speak—

not louder,

just clearer.

I know the smell of compliance,

the sleep that calls itself peace.

I’ve walked through rooms full of smiles,

each one hiding a quiet surrender.

We traded revolution for relevance,

presence for performance.

The price was steep; the receipt was invisible.

Now the sky hums my memory back to me:

Breathe deeper.

Stand truer.

Remember why you came.

Because revelation isn’t an accident,

it’s a return.

Every heartbeat is a drum inside a buried cathedral.

Every thought that dares to question

is another brick removed from the wall between us and the real.

The sacred was never lost —

only misplaced beneath constant noise.

I call to those still dreaming in high definition,

the ones who sense the glitch but smile anyway.

You are not crazy;

you are cracking open.

You are the moment light remembers its purpose.

There’s no sermon left to give,

no temple to build,

no flag to wave for salvation.

Just the quiet choice to be awake

when illusion crumbles on schedule.

That’s all revelation ever asked for—

your presence, unedited.

So take this poem like medicine,

bitter but pure.

Hold it under your tongue until the truth dissolves.

Let every word remind you

that salvation was self‑service all along.

I am the revelation,

and so are you.

Not an event to witness,

but a frequency to live by.

We don’t need another beginning.

We just need to start remembering

we were never asleep.

I am the revelation,

and so are you.

Not an event to witness,

but a frequency to live by.

We don’t need another beginning.

We just need to start remembering.

So now I breathe without fighting the air.

I move without naming the destination.

I forgive the machinery,

because even the cage taught me how to fly inward.

Every chain, a quiet teacher.

Every shadow, a map.

This is not victory.

It’s recognition.

The truth doesn’t compete; it simply *is.*

And I am finally done measuring my worth by resistance.

I accept the cost of aliveness —

the ache, the awe, the endless hum of being.

Maybe that’s enlightenment’s dirty secret:

you stop wanting to win,

and start wanting to understand.

You stop shouting “Wake up!”

and start whispering “Rest, you’re already home.”

So here I stand—

unarmed, unafraid, unavoidable—

not a prophet of what’s coming,

but a witness to what’s always been here.

I am the revelation,

no longer seeking light,

because I became it,

and I see now:

so did you.

That’s the whole truth,

and the only one that brings peace—

acceptance,

not escape.

The world doesn’t have to end;

it just has to exhale.