Written Expression

Stuck.

Brick barriers of muddy membrane.

Imprisoned.

Caged by my thoughts and identity.

Black, young, and Christian.

I am made of impenetrable identities.

So what are these thoughts and feelings?

Do I just need God?

Am I just supposed to shake it off and feel young?

Am I not made of the strength of my people?

No. That wasn’t it.

My identities don’t take away humanity.

I am abnormally normal.

So where do I go?

What do I do?

My mind is my own torture.

My language is my saviour.

Assignment turned breakthrough.

Expressing emotions with alluring alliteration

and striking structures.

Everything that was too weak for my people,

too old for my age,

and too evil for my beliefs

spilled onto typed pages and secret journals.