This One is for the Writers.

This one’s for the writers.

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The ones whose lyrics get sung and faces never get seen.The ones who ghost write for our Presidents and our social leaders, but who never get to see the light. Presidents and leaders who don’t remember what it’s like to put pen to paper, to push words out like pushing out new life. Birth. The ones whose work has been plagiarized, and you feel like someone has taken your heart out of its place. You feel violated. Empty.

This is for you.

This one is for the ones who write and write and never get published. Because we’re too radical. Because we’re too “ugly.” Because we’re not “worthy.” This one is for anyone whose words have lifted up and received breath, but by people who never created them in the first place. This is for all the selfless editors, the painstaking men and women who wordsmith and solder for someone else’s name on the byline.

This is for you.

This is for the English professors who have to defend their life work and position everyday and do it spectacularly. This is for the high school literature teachers trying to irrigate deserts with Jhumpa Lahiri and Oscar Wilde. This is for intercity school kids, pouring out Spoken Word like the Holy Spirit, enveloping us with the Truth and the pain and the heartache. This is for anyone who has ears to hear or mouths to speak or pens to write and bleed.

This is for you.

This is for little words with big power, like “I love you.” This is for words that roll off the tongue like creme fraiche, like “ceylon green” and “Shenandoah.” This is for names that make you want to dance in fir tree forests with the smell of earth, like “Caroline,” or the ones that make you remember and say reverently, like “Jeremiah”…or jeremiad. This is for the words that made you cry not at your college commencement, but the giggling bursts said by friends in funny looking hats — the ones which roll and rumble with not Pomp but Circumstance. Chance, Happenstance. Beautiful, lovely words.

This is for you.

This is for every Anonymous who has ever penned something so beautiful, they couldn’t even sign their names because it was like God was speaking for them. (Anonymous always writes the best things). This is for every poet that has ever given heartache a sonata. This is for the ones who are scrawling on toilet paper in prison camps or scraps of milk cartons with pencil stubs, but who hold entire universes inside their souls. This is for the word warriors, the ones who battle gargantuan monsters like racism and discrimination like a strict teacher striking out bad grammar. Just another day to speak the truth in permanent, red ink. The ones who bleed poetry from the mouths and ears, who see it in the banalities of pidgeon holes.

This is for you.

But most of all, this is for You. The One who wrote not just one galaxy, but an entire universe into motion. This is for the One, the original Writer, the Creator, the Architect of words so perfect they spoke Earth. They spoke Heaven. They spoke Love first. He spoke it first, and taught it to us. Students of the Word, students of words, students of word. He made the first nouns and enacted the first verbs, writing in tongues we no longer have the ears to hear the tones. This is for the One who speaks the lull of Mandarin on the lips of an early morning, a baritone of Cantonese to a beaming dusk, Swahili whispers at sunset, Italian lullabies in a sun-dappled afternoon and Hawaiian Pidgin just because He likes it. He is the Unspoken, the Written Unwritten we all want to read. The Library of Congress is an angelic chorus of He is here. If we are doing nothing but breathing, it is still the unavoidable Truth that His grace is sufficient. We write with breath from the dust, for the One who wrote us.

This is for You.


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