• The pen’s in my hand
    Ready;
    Able;
    Waiting to strike
    Yet no words spring
    My mind is blank
    Washed away
    My enemies doing
    Already attacked
    Conformed to their desires
    Not me.
    I cannot write
    Yet I write because I must
    No matter,
    The lack of rhythm
    Or loss of meaning
    I am still here
    Only,
    My purpose seems lost
    Though the page is blank
    I shall find a way
    While the pen’s in my hand
    Ready;
    Able;
    Waiting to strike
    I have already begun
    My silent battle
    My own war
    This is me
    This is my freedom
    Which no one can take