Writers 
Into the mirrors of my mind are the shackles of the shadows of my kind, craving an image to embody the grief of my grieving soul.
Into the mirrors of my mind lies an entity on the street, without an identity that will speak for the future he seeks to capture in the landscapes of his dreams.
And all he sees are the sculptures of his grieving soul, far beyond a world that was once a place tagged a loving home.
Into the mirrors of my mind are the babies roaming the streets, left to feel they should have been aborted from the very days they were conceived.
'Cause the wombs they lay upon were never treasured with the treasures that would have measured their worth in a world filled with pressure. And now, all we are left with is a pen, standing as the eye to the heartbeat of our pain, painting the artistry of the bloodstains of our stolen pride.
Left with no hope to feed on, feeding on the crumbs fed to us by those who besieged our priorities.
Our creativity has been left to rot like dead flesh, with the flashes of borns in a dark grave.
Violence we embraced as those enslaved, with stripes and scars running down the backs of our spines, forced into a life of lameness, living like men without names.
For all we grew up receiving were empty promises, raising a generation of men entangled in unlawful heresies.
I guess we were born as handicaps, left to die with the gulping sound of hope trapped beneath our throats.
I guess we were born to keep sleeping under the security of their insecurities.
I guess we were born to be numb, but destined to end up writing all our wrongs, 'cause all we are left with is a pen to write, with no answers to a better future, for all men now live for themselves.
#Gratitude
#BY_THE_LORD
@emd
