Voice

What is a voice if it can’t be heard?
A whisper lost, a silent word.
Heard where? At home, on stage, in halls?
Or nowhere—bouncing off the walls?

We hear so many voices near—
Parents, siblings, those we hold dear.
Grandparents’ wisdom, friends who care,
But what of those in power there?

Teachers, medics, those in blue—
Do we listen? Do we value
What they say, or turn away,
Ignoring words they speak each day?

And what of leaders, those on high—
Councillors, ministers, spinning lies?
They preach of cuts, they talk of debt,
Yet do they hear our voices yet?

When does a voice stop being true?
When words are staged, rehearsed anew.
Debates, old lines, the same refrain,
We’ve heard it all and back again.

But this—this voice—these words are mine,
Not scripted, not a borrowed line.
And here today, in spoken word,
This voice—at last—is seen and heard.

A voice is more than talk or trade,
More than echoes that will fade.
A voice is power, strong and free,
And poetry gives that voice to me.