My Poems Are Not Magic (A note to my oppressor)

Don’t doubt or question me

I tell you what my poems can do

My poems are not magic

But they are more than that

I hide miracles in my words

My poems can turn your bombs into birds

Your bullets into rhymes

Your torture into symphonies

You’ll never understand my songs

But I will never stop singing them

Because they can break your prisons

And shake your parliaments

My poems can tear your skin apart

And reveal the enormous ugliness you hide inside

My poems can turn tears into floods

Floods into storms

Storms into freedom and hope

For new beginning

My poems may not taste good on your tongue

But their bitterness is the cure to my heart

My poems may not be easy on your eardrums

But their uneven meters and unrhymed words

Is the sound of my heartbeat

That keeps my dream alive

The dream unto freedom

Careful!

My poems can burn you

So read

Read carefully my poems

And taste

What comes out of my womb of misery

Would never come from your barrels of oppression