I pray while I write

Or maybe writing is a prayer.

I have hope for these words

That they will make a difference

I pray they will move a nation

Move people, move hearts, move mountains

Language my lever, feelings my fulcrum.

 

Even when I am drowning in ink

When everything I love is covered

With black splotches and smears

I pray with my words

A prayer for change.

 

When I want to stop

When my hand cramps

My head feels fogged

And out of words.

I think of my people

And the culture that stands

Between them and who they are.

Ghosts on my shoulder

Adding weight to my prayers

Cheering me on, cheering me on

To walk naked through

A field of critics.

Everything that I am

Ashamed of

Afraid of

Proud of

Laid out in my personal story.

Except.

It isn’t personal any more.

All of it is out there

Paid for with

Inkstains and

Bleary eyes and

A tired mind.

This story belongs now

To the people

And this is why I pray.

 

I pray while I write

So my private story

Will become something to inspire

Sweating my heart

Into the words.

Bleeding

Into the ink.

Move I whisper over

The still infantile words.

Move the world

With the power I am giving you.

Go forth little one.

Make change in all you do.

And this is how I pray.