Written by: Tamanna Malik
No, i don’t write about pretty skies or beautiful flowers,
for the sky is hardly every visible from my place and flowers do not grow in my backyard.
No, I don’t write about serene mornings at beautiful beaches,
for all one can hear in the clustered lanes of this slum are curses and cries.
No, I don’t write about mothers’ loving touch and protective hugs,
for mine died taking care of you and your mess.
No, I don’t write about home,
for I belong to the other side of the tracks and you don’t have the stomach to read our stories.
No, I don’t write about my dreams either,
for we’re taught to survive and not dream for dreams are the illusions that lead to destruction.
No, I don’t write about anything at all,
for you’ve snatched our ink and quills and you’ve built walls to deny our existence.
No, I don’t write,
for I can not, ‘cause you don’t let me.
And then you ask me, “why don’t you write?”