Trigger Warning
The pen and the brush are all I have
the only language I know-
my pulse, my voice, my survival.
In a world that echoes with pixelated screams-
children murdered in carpet bombings,
where rivers run scarlet in forgotten corners,
where false messiahs slash at what is left
of humanity,
I wake with a shaking hand,
reaching for colour, searching for words
to somehow survive the noise.
It feels obscene at times,
to paint lilies and dragonflies,
to write of moss and morning mist
while somewhere
a mother wails
gathering the scattered shards
of her infant’s hands and ribs
from piles of dust and rubble.
And still-
I paint.
I write.
Because if I don’t,
despair will eat me whole.
This is my only way through the quagmire.
Step too deep into the abyss
and I know I will not return.
So, I turn toward the single dewdrop
trembling on a camellia,
to the wings of moths and fireflies,
toward gardens that breathe
and oceans that sing
unaware of the world’s implosion.
The pen and the brush are all I have-
my paper shield against the storm,
my last defense against the dark.
And I know I am small,
and I am no hero,
just a blinking flame at the far edge
of nowhere, spilling colour and words,
creating- not to turn away,
not to ignore
the enormity of the wreckage,
but to overcome it.
Behind the scenes,
I bleed and grieve
and carry the shame of my safety,
the guilt of my privilege.
And I cry for my own children
who will walk through the ash of this world
just as I do for the mothers
whose arms have been scraped empty.
Still-
the pen and the brush
are my only hope
my only bridge
across this godless, smouldering void.
This is all I have to give.
This is all I have to share.
The pen and the brush are all I have,
as sanctuary, as beacons-
to loosen the snare,
to lighten the weight,
of another day.