My pen cutting wounds into the surface, forming letters, creating words that express my existence. Wounds that never seem to heal because they are real testaments to who I am, where I come from, and what I been through.
Peroxide only seem to palliate the damage, that make the healing process even dawdling.
However, when time does heal these wounds – because these wounds will ameliorate – you will be forced to look at those scars and fear the reprisal of the political monster you created.
Hiding my scars by forcing me into solitary sequester, away from the inquisitive eyes of society, only corroborates your barbaric nature and prolongs your trial date.
With every stroke of this pen my blood flows profusely, racing to record my pain that will one day be used as evidence against my tormentors.
Who is really the criminal? Me and my ancestors who were kidnapped and brought to this bellicose foreign land? Don’t want to talk about that though, huh?
Locked in solitary confinement, fighting a war that’s within myself.
Never quitting on myself even when those around me have done just that, I’m believing in myself.
Reality is present at all times while surrounded by nonsense and men with small minds.
Gotta be careful not to shed too many tears though, you would surely drown in such small confines.
In solitude, strength is a luxury and not all men are capable of being strong.
Every day will test your strength and you will lose your grip and fall if you don’t hold on.
Gotta hold on even when you don’t know if the struggle will ever end.
I’m holding on to the smallest things, because I see the blood and I know that it’s life in this pen.
March 11, 2014