I want to write words that speak to the reader.
I want to stir something deep within
Something that expands beyond the concrete and corners
Past the heart that we are so caught up to express.
I want to make rhymes out of what is important.
Punching words between lines of one’s struggling identity
and forgetting commas at the same place people forgot equality.
I see the pen painting words that uncover the faces of women and children,
adjectives that let them understand a small taste of freedom.
Descriptions that don’t require a male approval
or a phrase from a dusty idolic book.
I want my poem to be understood universally
No need for presidents, politics, or punctuation.
I want missiles to fire from between the lines of this page,
bringing light to the ideas we were not supposed to see.
I want people to feel the power of the word within the womb,
the small hand that may one day grasp the same pen,
the small hand that belongs only to her, not you.
I want people to feel the violence of the pronunciation,
the simple choice of smooth and soft
or course and callused.
To express how the ink bruises the paper as it makes its mark,
the same way she was left,
him believing it was his right, and therefore his masterpiece.
Will my words bring justice to the silent cacophony we pretend not to hear?
Will it make it any easier to pretend we have a choice?
I wish I could be the voice that weeps as I write,
I wish I could stifle cries, dress the wounded, and fill the mouths with my sentences,
for they are hungry to be heard.
I want to make a mark on the heart,
engrave this image and let it sink to the bottom.
I want to talk about what is important,
but all I have is whispering words.