Why I Write: The Voice to the Voiceless

Slamming words together, does it mean anything at all?

Grandfathers telling stories about men that stood 10 feet tall,

And I remember listening sweetly as the fantasy soaked in my ears,

And I remember, I remember how blissfully ignorant I was those years,

I write to tell stories for those who have no memories,

To give a past to someone who turns out empty

And I’m convinced that life is better in dreams                                             

Yet the key to living is to picture it better than it seems,

So I write patronized sentences; hoping to come across

As someone who knows the ins and outs of life which I know nothing about,

My words will fuel a teenager’s car either to the grocery store or Arkansas,

I, I hope that my stuttering will activate the brakes and not lead them astray that far,

I know that my heart is young but my head is old,

I write to speak the truth testifying to listen to what you’ve been told

And I’ll hold my tongue and leave my thoughts in the sanctuary of my frontal lobe

Yet if I do this oh, I will not know the shape that my words mold,

And so I write for the sake of relating to the kid who’s known nothing but to be alone,

A mother diseasing, a father beating and a sister, who’s lost in her own soul,

What words can wield, what words can progress

Is much more persuasive than men with guns and fists

And so if we look up to the sky

We all see the same one,

And in that second we are the same too,

With raspy voices from sentences trapped in our lungs

So I write to tell the stories that have never been fully told,

And clarify the broken ones so their truth shall be known

Men might say that the world can no longer sing her harmonious song,

Well, I write – I write to prove them wrong.