She is the sole witness to the whispers in the dark,
The fire of guns, the shadows and silhouettes Hidden from sight – growing
Larger, advancing on a victim –
And the blood that stains the streets
That reeks to the heavens;
She is the sole witness to the cries of children
To the wail of a mother, to
The panicked scream as a door is struck
Down; bodies clad in blue sworn to
Secure the safety of the masses after
Their lives, heroes of a society
Broken, never to be mistaken; to the
Sick and innocent dead by the hand of
Their own people, their lives reduced
To a statistic and scorned as the
Disease that rots away civilization,
Better off dead for progress, the
Hypocritical progress that is supposed
To grow but kills and is lost in the
Lines blurred between justice
And ethics and the rights of every
Human being turned into a punchline instead of a priority and
By God, she watches every night,
She does, she counts the minutes till
Dawn, she wishes the clouds were
Thicker to hide her,
To stop her from giving them light
That aids them – but in darkness too in her Absence they are all the more aided,
And the glowing streetlamps of the
Country bathing the pavements in orange
Are brighter than she is – and she
For the sun
We wield words
as both armor and weapon,
but too often,
forget what we are in the battlefield for.
To write is to explore a hidden jungle deep within us,
but to write is also to transcend self-discovery:
it is to serve,
it is to cause,
it is to ripple across hearts and minds
– across generations, even –
it is to remember,
and to remind;
it is to fight,
it is to heal and
it is to reflect.
we are to serve as writers to those who cannot speak what they feel,
we fight not with the glint of of both shining armor and weapon but with the armor scarred, bloodied (we fight not with the beauty of our words,
but the message; the truth,
that it holds);
we are to serve as witnesses to those who doubt, who mock;
we sing the melodies for the voices unsung.
we must not keep
getting lost in the wonder,
of rhyme and rhythm that flow through every verse.
We escape it.
We produce for heroic matters.
Art is the extension
of a human being’s soul.
Colors and paint,
words and ink,
graphite and portraits,
brushes and pens and charcoal
in a clutter, on a desk
or in a corner of the room:
they tell you more
of who a person is
than what they themselves
With that, I have a confession:
in between the lines and verses written
are secrets taken to the grave
memories that have long faded
and tears quietly shed.
That realization is how my vulnerability grew
with the knowledge of others who read what I do.
If you knew where to look,
If you knew what to see,
you could gather all of my weaknesses
the easiest way to break me.
Writing is supposed to be selfish,
and reading is, too.
so I beg you
not to divulge
what you might discover
hidden in between
rhymes and rhythms
and figurative speech.
I beg you –
interpret me selfishly,
shroud my emotions,
fit my words into your world, and
listen to what resonates within;
and not the confessions hidden
in every verse.
For art is the extension of the soul,
and art is my soul’s absolution.