Quill of Defiance
Pens do not merely stain papers,
They are swords to fight battles seldom won.
Poets don their armor of words and thoughts,
And cry bloody war to keep the ink from turning red.
We stand tall in the face of hunger,
Starving for morsels of change to fill our appetite.
Our muses know no discrimination,
As we weave tales that travel lands long forgotten.
We cry out in plea through silent letters,
And render life to those who have lost their will.
We are poets --
Thus we exist for all,
And all exist for us.
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