And So I Write
(This is a slightly edited version of a poem that was posted earlier on my Journal, I found it appropriate as a submission for the Extra Credit)
Girl who writes from home,
Here is a poem, to my sisters across the world,
I may not have experienced the feeling of being born into war.
I may not know enough of your lands, which to me, are all afar.
I may not have seen my country snatched out of my hands by another.
I may not have known what it feels in a place where no one could bother.
I may not know what it is like when your country remains in the throes of war year after year.
I may not know what it feels to be in a state of constantly enforced hurt, anger or even fear.
I may not have known how it feels to be forced to give up education because I am a girl.
I may not have any idea how it must feel to be forcibly veiled in a canvas furl.
I may have no idea of how it feels to see your society crumble,
I may have no idea what it feels to always face trouble.
I may have no clue.
That may be true.
I have this blister,
Of pain at all that you -
Are forced, not by choice to go through.
Because, as I see, in honesty, your plight to me,
Is not the life to lead for one as lovely as you, nor a sight to see,
Because your life, your times, your trials and your tribulations to me,
Are really, the worst of the worst of the situations that there can ever be.
I may not know how it feels to be there, but I know enough because I care.
It may be of no use, that I write, write, write and write,
All about you, your life, your times and your plight,
It may be futile that I speak, speak and speak,
While out there, I would only be meek.
But I try, nevertheless,
For if I don’t tell,
Whatever I know very well,
This world won’t hear, nor see, nor know,
This story of yours, these realities with horrors in tow.
This wide world can’t know of the many things that take place,
Of the sufferings you go through, the miseries you see, the difficulties you face.
The world will never know what it feels like to be a pawn in war,
Nor what it feels like to lead a life like yours from afar,
Nor the trials and the tribulations that define you,
Nor any of the things that are for you, true.
So I try to do my best, something,
And tell them the thing,
So they know,
For you, your own,
And when I write, dear one,
I want you to know that it is not fun.
Because every bomb that goes off out there,
Makes my heart thump and race in fear and scare.
Because every story of rape, murder and molestation I hear,
Sets off my thoughts running wild and amok, haywire, in fear.
Because every time I see that some have died, some are injured, some are alive,
I want to know if you are safe, comfortable in your hive.
And so I try to be some kind of a conduit,
A speaker, a writer, a voice, for a bit,
Something that would
Show the world,
All that you