I am not the owner of my words—
not the master of my quotes,
nor the crafter of my stanza,
nor the painter of my verses.
I am simply the extension of the pen—
a vessel of expression, granted the freedom
to speak what aches beneath the skin.
But take away the artist who holds the pen,
or take away the pen itself—and the voice
of the artist, soon becomes the pen instead.
Words find a way to bleed through silence.
No matter how noble your intent,
to silence one’s voice is to sever the
soul’s right to breathe.
And still— they will return,
stronger than before; they will fight
for their word— words that once gave
them armour, and the pen, a weapon.
Not to draw blood—
but to cut through blindness.
A violent expression, yes—
but born of peace, wild but tamed,
structured but never caged.
Because there is freedom in every
word, written or said.
