What am I?

What am I? I don’t know. Maybe a scream searching for its name in the dark, maybe a child with scraped knees on the burning road, a man with his throat clenched by the noose of stars, when the church bells shatters Beneath the hammer of silence. Or perhaps I’m just a mute with no one left to scream to. I write these poems not to be read by some fool in branded glasses, but so I won’t dissolve into noise. So I won’t get lost in a foreign language that demands fiscal prayers, not mourning. Pain? I hold it like a cigarette extinguished in my palm. It burns,but at least, I know I’m still alive, I’m still burning in the vice of shadows. Today’s poet doesn’t ask for glory. No stage, applause or crown Just a phone on silent mode and a corner of a wall where I carve verses uncensored by hunger, where I can pray without being asked for coins in the tray when going to church. Here I write. Here I cry. No one charges me taxes. Here I scream, and no traffic light hears me. Poetry no longer changes the world. Poetry is me, when I can’t bear to be myself anymore. If tomorrow the sky deletes me from its contacts, leave me a corner of paper, so I can return if I ever feel like it. Or maybe I’ll remain just an unopened notification, a verse you never had the chance to read. I’m still learning to be calm, like a simmering light that still bites into the shadows. And if I never learned to be light, only a rag burning in a forgotten lamp at night, forgive me, O sky. But I did burn. And I didn’t die without leaving a sign.