I live for the writers,
the ink stainers,
the survivors.
The ones who hold a pen in their hands and scrawl out a story
are the ones who have lived past the worry and woe to write out a warning.
A warning to the ones who haven't lived in that moment
when love breaks a heart beyond the protective confines of a ribcage,
when suffering scatters scars against skin and turns the innocent into warriors,
when life makes us hopeless, when all we want is rest.
I live for the ones who have ink on their arms,
who are staining themselves with not only their stories,
but the words of those who can't speak.
I live for the voiceless, so they can be heard, instead of ignored,
instead of silenced.
I live for the ones seeking words that spark a little bit of hope
back into humanity.
I live to write the idea of change into someone's mind.
Sometimes, though, I need help.
I need a voice
and I need time.
No comments:
Post a Comment