I had a morning dream, but not like the usual ones in which I often dream of melodies. In this dream on this particular morning I dreamt of words. each line made sense but their order did not. I took to bed a pen and paper and wrote as much as I could before they faded from my mind’s eye.
Clearly, the current climate is having its effect.
Dream or Nightmare ?
If I bleach my skin will you let me in?
Or show my face to unveil my race
If I cut my hair till my head is bare
And stoop my head, will you bend instead?
If I recant my faith will you save a place?
Or rescind my right to stand and fight
If I share my light will you shine more bright?
As you splice the dark to seal your mark
On lips that seek to have sound
And eyes that look to be seen
Or hands that want to be found
As ears try to shut out the scream
Handwriting Is Not Dead – Pilot ink pot and Prera Pen