The Warrior’s Pen

Kiana Jimenez

September 24, 2025

In case no one sees it,

I weave my words where prayers don’t fit.

My excerpts hold more than whispered pleas,

Spilling my troubles like falling seas.

I write longer than I bow in despair,

Each stroke a wound, each line a repair.

I memorize every shame I’ve known,

Etching them deep like marks on stone.

The same sharp tones that broke my bones,

The echoes of insults, degrading moans—

I capture them all in ink and fight,

With nothing but my pen to ignite.

My fingertips are my armor and sword,

Wielding the truth where silence is stored.

Though sure of my words, I doubt my worth,

Their voices haunt me, their shadows unearth.

They strip my courage, tear me apart,

Turning my sanity into shards of art.

Yet still, I remain, bold and unbroken,

Writing the truths they wish were unspoken.

Each letter a battle, each page a stand,

Till my ink runs dry and trembles my hand.

For a writer is a warrior, fierce and free,

Fighting through words for eternity.

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