i used to write.

i used to write

i had this voice inside of me screaming each day, i would figure that i could configure lines like anybody else

better than anybody else

i’d whisper them out loud in the bottom bunk of my dormitory

so many stories untold only imagined

i’d sink deep thoughts in to hallow spaces of paper pieces

i could never let them go, dared to write it down too quickly lest the lines would be imperfect


i used to write

i used to write love poems of my true love

every week new tales of how we found became and gave up one another

i wouldnt bother to make it G rated just capitalized on every feeling inside of me

i would hop through lines and spaces through time with the idea of being in love

it never came to fluition. i was left only with spilled ink and solid tears

i used to write

i used to write of a girl brown like me who discovered her beauty in some corner of a classroom

in between psychology theories and social research papers

then hopped between aisles of doubt and disregard

she loved and celebrated herself not apologizing for never being tainted

battered, brusied, or given to anyone. she was pure and unlike




she had ever cared to meet. she was me, unique.

i used to write

writing freedom songs of ancestors that i only met through movies and documentaries of a reality all too painful to be true

my beats and rhthyms cried out from this square image created of myself.

i could give voice in a way no other knew i could. i was unlike the caged bird within

their beatings captivity freedom and pain consumed the pages of accounts indebted to their broadcasting

someone had to tell it. why couldnt it be me

i used to write

i used to free myself laying down with this grief and sorrow for the world

my eyes close with pierced lips yearning to talk again

fingers yearning to write again

heart yearning to love again.

i used to write, but love don’t love nobody.


-Amira (c) 2011


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