I often stutter so frequently that I can not help but think,
That my life would simpler if I could not speak.
But with a twiddle of my pen I could erase away the pain,
All the hurt, all the blame, and all the judgemental names.
As paper bleeds black, blue and red
I know that my words can be spoken
In voice other than my own.
An African American man from Kansas,
A single mother of three,
A heart broken teen with attention needs.
With a British accent,
Exchanged in small talk
And through translations,
My words won't be lost.
They can be heard,
In cities, in villages, in countries,
All throughout the world.
With my words spoken
In tones other than my own.
And I like to think it gives me hope,
To write a poem, a story, the lyrics to a song.
And somehow these words
These little parts of who I am,
End up inspiring someone,
Anyone who needs the strength to fight
In this shivering breeze,
The wakes of life.
I give a breathe with every word,
My simple little words,
That wrap around your shoulders,
Saving you from yourself,
From the world.
Because we all need protecting,
Freedom from ourselves.
And with this pen I'm given hope
That you change your life around.
Just as the last person,
Who put their heart into a note,
Did the same for me.
The little pieces of themselves,
That were once so vulnverable
But now are seen,
So I could have my words,
Not forced to be spoken,
But shared to be heard.