I want to write into the hearts and minds of those souls seeking redemption from persecution, for those seeking joy from the ashes of failure, for those seeking to be free of their self imposed negativity, for those mothers having lost their individuality in childbirth for those fathers having lost their self respect over one missed visit, over one missed payment struggling to find validation on the debit sheets of those keeping accounting of their dignity.
I write for the many voices now laid silent by the evil that found them at times mere second before the Angles of rescue. I write for the incarcerated be they victims of the wrongly convicted or just a momentary lost of control, they are all souls bleeding upon the pages I write. I write for the innocence of the abused, those lacking the strength to resist even as much as to say, “no’. I write for those born of violence destined to be shame by their very birth mothers, or worst, to be cast away like stench filled stagnant cesspools of human cruelty.
I write for the caregiver having to find once more, a smile for someone long having lost the memory that would have measured its value, for the fighters of fires, fighters of domestic disputes or just mending the broken emergency room struggles. I write for the preachers having lost faith, for the politicians with good intent now explaining their malicious miss-spent, for the farmers having nothing to feed their families, the executive hiding their homelessness from family and friends.
I write for me, searching for my purpose, my centre calling while standing perfectly still on the center of all things. I write to calm the storm raging inside capped by the fragility of faith while laying in wait on the other side of my faith, a dormant volcanic catastrophic eventuality. I write to be right. I write to be wrong. I write to be just me. I write not to be you but still I write in expectations of the best of you being better than the best of me.
I write to be seen by the face of God. I write to know that face of that which calls itself the Devil. I write to for the wisdom to know the difference. I write knowing that all that I seek is somewhere inside of me. I write to hold your hand in hopes of crossing over our differences seamlessly. And still I continue to write in search of the unknown, the unexplained yet I am with clarity that nothing is a mystery only our ignorance of its knowledge. I write for you to be free not to have to write my epitaph of me never having had this chance to have written this most important piece expressing why we should all take up that pen every now and then.