I WRITE, OR I AM LOST

 

A POEM

I write. Even when the world watches in silence.

Day and night I write.

If I do not write,

I lose myself.

To me, every idea is a story

waiting for breath.

I know where I come from—

a place where applause is never given

for rising.

It only arrives

when I stumble,

when I fall,

when my knees meet the ground.

That is when I hear screams of joy

and laughter dressed as celebration.

Yes, my online streams are full.

They call themselves my friends—

people I know.

But when I post truth,

they pass in silence.

No like.

No word.

No sign.

Confusion strikes my mind:

If you do not like what I share,

why did you follow me in the first place?

Then I understood—

they are not followers,

they are watchers.

They wait for my fall,

forgetting that my tears

do not dry in passing winds.

When I cry,

the rain cries with me.

And to the God I bow to,

my tears return as thunder.

I will never become

a mockery fueled by hate.

Only death has the patience

to humble every man—

for it consumes us all

the way rust consumes iron.

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© THEMBA T. TWALA III

I write. Even when the world watches in silence.