Reflection:
There are voices still waiting to be heard—voices too young, too hidden, too distant for the world to notice. I write so they are not forgotten. I write because silence, for them, is not an option.
Poem:
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.
