I am a writer.

an echo that has no sound.

Standing on heavens, to discern a truth

Peeling my ears to the voices of the masses

Hearing their anguish, their misery, their suffering, and their hate

their love

With those, I scribe a scripture.

One that remains poetic 

One that remains unprophetic 

and undivine 

I write nothing

 but stolen emotions. 

stolen voices, which they never spoke. 

As I plugged words from their hearts. 

Planted in an uncatered garden 

A garden of dying tulips 

Browned flowers caged from the truth of light 

The seed of their pain 

with it grew a dark rose. 

Petals of love and hate 

Suffering and slavery

I, the writer, freed those petals.

Taken by a calm breeze, 

they flew back to the masses.