They say I was born with words in my mouth,
A chatterbox, they say,
But what do they know of the echoes
that chase me,
from the cracks in my bones to the deepest part of my soul?
I speak,
and these words,
they rise like a fire
not to burn,
but to light the path I have walked
— alone,
and at times,
so very lost.
Some call me a wordsmith,
polished, refined,
like I was born from the stardust of ancient verses,
while others see in me a politician,
the mouthpiece of their forgotten dreams.
They don’t know the weight of my tongue
It is not silver,
It is steel,
forged in silence,
shaped by struggle,
hammered into existence
by a thousand nights
without sleep,
without rest.
But what do they know about the quiet wars inside me?
How the words I speak
are the ointment for wounds unseen
a slow, aching drip
of peace,
of freedom
in a world that forgets
to listen.
They say I am blessed
and I do not refute.
But do they know how I crawled through fire
with nothing but these words in my hands?
Do they know how many stones I turned,
how many rivers I crossed,
before these words became mine?
I was born with words,
not to please the crowd,
not to win their applause.
No. I was born with words
to shout, to scream,
to heal,
to survive.
I speak,
not for the echo,
but for the voice
that never had a chance.
I was born with words,
and now,
I am back
not to whisper through the cracks,
but to smash their illusions.
Let them call it fate,
or the fire of destiny’s flame,
but I know the truth:
these words are not mine to keep,
they are the lifeblood of the forgotten,
the silent scream of a world bound by silence.
I will not be muted,
not by the weight of their judgment,
I was born with words to break chains,
to carve a path in the dark,
to make the voiceless heard,
and the lost, found.
