Small voice.

I was once a radicalist.

Once upon a time I believed in something;
I believed in a future, A God.
Someone far reaching,
A road so long that you could barely glimpse the end of;
And sometimes you would travel the miles and still trip, and fall, dazed on it...
But I viewed myself a soldier, and that road, for all its hardships was still worth travelling on.

I would sit and think, and think, and think...

The conclusions of my thoughts always drew blood,
And the blood was the ink, for my angry poetry,
The ink was the voice I could get a hold of;
The voice I could control,
And I could speak to droves and droves,
I could speak to hundreds from my little home.

Apart from my shallow mind,
The words gave me poise,
They gave me a reason, a roster of different spellings.
Different pronunciations to highlight one point,
And it stood there, staring me in the face...

Angry eyes,
Dried up tears,
A contorted face,
Lips twisted, lucid and wry.

Back then,
I would have frozen time,
I would have set the world on fire a thousand times...
Just to be heard.

But back then,
My small voice struggled to gain the articulate choice.

My still small voice.