Why I Write

There are days when I write without warning.
When the pen becomes an ache,
and the ache becomes a voice.I write about my feelings—
not because I understand them,
but because they refuse to remain silent.

They rise like incense from places I didn’t know were wounded.
A glance from a child who expected more than I could offer.
The trembling stillness after news of war.
The unspoken forgiveness in the way my mother folded my clothes.

My feelings do not ask permission.
They arrive mid-sentence,
demanding I make room
for joy and sorrow to sit beside each other—
laughing and crying like old friends.

I see the dust on the shoes of messengers.
The way the sun crawls up the spine of a schoolboy carrying a notebook of dreams.
I see doves on telephone wires—
as if heaven still finds ways to balance between lines.I see wounds—stitched and raw—
on people who speak in metaphors and hope I’ll notice.

And yes, I see what others ignore.
The woman washing her child’s hair in the street gutter.
The teenager drawing futures in the dirt.
The sacred ordinary.

My eyes are not cameras; they are confessions.
I do not photograph the world—
I listen to its shadows
and transcribe them into verse.

I hear the land speak.
It groans beneath the weight of forgotten promises
and still whispers the names of its children.I hear church bells and motorcycles,
and weeping that doesn’t need translation.
I hear laughter at funerals
and silence at weddings.

Sometimes, I write the unsaid—
the things people mean but cannot name.
Their pauses. Their broken syllables.

I write their echoes
so they know
they are not alone.

I hear songs sung under breath—
Freedom hymns from forgotten tongues.
I hear the absence between footsteps,
when grief walks silently beside joy.

I touch the paper between my fingers.
The earth my grandfather once tilled.
The cracked walls of forgotten schools.
The scar on my knee
from running too fast into youth.I touch moments.
I touch the air left behind after stories are told.
I touch folded letters stored in hearts.

And I write them
before memory fades.

I touch stories folded in scar tissue.
The sacred softness of a child’s hand gripping hope.

I dream about things that shouldn’t make sense.
Like children running through fields of fire—and not being burned.
Like passports that don’t decide worth.
Like justice that doesn’t sleep in the dark.I dream of poetry being taught alongside math.
Of doves who know their names.

I dream of a world that still believes in healing—
not perfect, not polished—
but becoming.
Always becoming.

I dream of gospel bridges between every tribe and tongue.
Of letters written in light on the walls of darkness.

I write for the voiceless,
for the ones the world never captions.For the child who has learned to sleep through hunger,
and the mother whose lullabies are prayers in broken tongues.

I write for the vulnerable,
the barefoot prophets in refugee camps,
the quiet genius building hope out of scrap wire,
the child soldier who remembers a hymn
even when he forgets his name.

I write because silence cannot carry this Gospel alone.
Because some hearts are too wounded to hear preaching—
but they will read a poem.

My quill doesn’t belong to me.
It’s borrowed breath, bought by mercy.

It exists to be light in the darkness—
not to impress, but to illuminate.

It exists to be salt in bitterness—
not to sweeten, but to preserve what still matters.

I write toward the ends of the earth,
toward the unreached—the unseen—the unheld.
Where no microphone reaches,
let a metaphor carry.
Where pulpits are forbidden,
let poetry be permission.Because Jesus said, “Go.”
And my going begins
with ink.

Some people paint.
Some people sing.
Some build. Others break.

But me?
I write.

Until even my silence
feels like a stanza.