I write with the
hands of a pauper,
with the grief of the hopeless.
I write
with the caustic memories of
mourners standing by the grave
chanting dark dirge to their beloved.

I sing with the voice
of the voiceless
to make their silenced voices
heard like thunders.
I write with the pain
bestowed on beggers.
I write with disdain of
stigma like stickers pasted
on their foreheads.

I drum with the palms
of the disabled so
people could hear the cries of their heart through the beats
from the percussion.
And with the eyes of the
blind I navigate the world
so people could see beyond
the fault in their stars of creation.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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