I Write to Be Free

Asking me why I write
Is like asking why I breathe.
I write because I feel an innate necessity to;
Poetry is my soul, and the pen is my body.

I write because I do not know who I am.
I need my soul to tell me.
Poetry is the outlet to all that my soul knows is true
And it is how I come to understand these truths.

I write because a man once told me "the truth is what sets you free."
Lies are what keeps life at bay.
The lies spoken from my mouth have imprisoned me,
And the truths of my soul are slowly breaking the bars.

I write to help those in bondage to escape.
Whether it is the prison of the mind or another's misconception,
No one should be a prisoner of any demise.
Freedom is as inherent as the blood coursing through my veins.

I write because my freedom is mine to to keep.
My freedom to write against those who think themselves above.
Life has a way of keeping all on an equal playing field
And they should understand that.

I write because I feel every bone in my body telling me to do so.
I write to find myself.
I write because I am and always will be free.
I write because those who find themselves above me have another thing coming.

These Hands

Hands such as mine have many faces;
They come from brokenness, missing and important thing, love.
The hands know many things; but, not many would call them smart.
My hands have learned to be capable, as long as they are not asked to heal.
My hands know but one heart,
And it is the same one that makes it beat, and taught it to steal.

Hands such as mine have found it quite difficult to love.
Such an idea, is perplexing, just as they don't understand healing.
With all this confusion, they become better at stealing.
For one to see the pain the follows, one much understand a soul's heart.
For my hands pain come from thinking time has already made them smart.
They've done nothing but continue to hide under their faces.

Hands such as mine have been hidden much too long to heal.
They've become so blind, they can't even follow their own heart.
These hands have lost the capability to remember faces.
Hands such as these cannot be considered smart.
By this time, these have have become the best at stealing.
So well, in fact, they learned to stop others from loving.

It's a challenge to stop these hands to stop guarding my heart.
That's what they learned it is to be smart.
They want to understand love.
They would like to understand something beside stealing.
These hands miss the warmth of unnoticed faces.
My hands want the blessed touch of healing.

My hands no longer see themselves as smart;
These hands will no longer steal.
The question is now, what does it take to heal?
What must they do to remember faces?
What must my heads do to understand love?
How do my hands learn to open my heart.

These are the trials of my hands, can someone steal
My hands and expose my real face?
Show my hands the true strength of my heart.
Please show the ex-theifs love.
Because love is what lets you heal.
True hands that love, that understand pain, can only then be smart.