Sometimes
The pen is all I’ve got
To fight off the zombies
That threaten to feast on my brain
At the end of the day,
Bringing to life
The half-dead dreams
That day to day reality beats down
Relentlessly.
In a world that seems hellbent
On mispronouncing my name
And misunderstanding my story
The pen often feels like the only place where
My truth feels safe enough to be spoken,
Where my dreams have room to evolve
Where my soul has space to prosper.
I have discovered
That living behind the pen
Is not hiding from reality
But rather putting the seemingly random
Disasters and delights of daily life into context
Giving vocabulary to wordless sobs
Celebrating wins that no one else sees
Raising a platform for the downtrodden parts me
Setting a comfortable bed to rest
For this restless immigrant,
Unfolding a frontier
Where the powerless get a better story.
I have come to write
Not to pass the time
And not even for attention
No,
I have come to know
What it means to
Write for survival.
Writing for Survival
heartinscriber 