I want to write.

            I want to free my mind of the silent screams,

            To carve my name into marble

            With blood and ink—

            Written with weak and burning fingers.

I want to shatter the heavens with a war cry,

            I want the stars to burn

            But I will burn brighter.

            It will blaze into my skin

            And melt with flesh and bone.

I want to shout into the world.

            I want my thoughts freed from their iron prison.

            It is melting; it is rusted and cold in there

            I should know—

            I’ve been a prisoner there for many years.

If I cannot speak the Forbidden Words, I will write them.

            Even if my fingers are worn to my soul

            And long after the ink runs dry,

            And my tongue turns to dust—

            To defy is my saving grace.

My words are sanctuary through the civilized jungle.

            My handwriting is my voice.

            I want to write,

            But most importantly,

            I want to be heard.

My blood is boiling but my mouth is dry—

            With unspoken words long dead lying behind my teeth.

If I cannot revive them, then they will slither into ink and rock

            Emotion pooling like lava,

            Hissing with steam; passionate and unforgiving.

            They will purify my world with a heavenly fury,

            And upon this rock, become the foundation of a new existence.

The prison is no more—the jailor is dead.

            The dam has broken, and now a New Age has come.

            It is made of fire and stone and mistakes and the Unknown

            But it is full of life.

            And I will settle for nothing less.