Poem. Painting. Protest. Notes from a Self-declared "Prisoner of Conscience"

Creating in confinement, surviving with conscience.

“To be great is to be misunderstood.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Author’s Painting, called “Prisoner of Conscience,” first published with poem in The Memoirist.

Dear Fellow Warrior,

I wrote a poem earlier this year, which was recently published on a Medium publication, The Memoirist. and I wanted to share that piece here as well.

Here is the piece in the original Publication:

Prisoner of Conscience: An Ode to Solitude

This was my first poem published by another publication other than my personal blog. I believe it was a great moment to mark for the Indie poet within me.

I am grateful they accepted this as my first piece. I submitted this piece earlier this year to a poetry contest with the theme of "Hurt and Healing."

Seemed right up my alley. :)

When I learned I didn't win, I decided to submit this poem to an indie publication that resonated most with me. I am happy they published it before Eid-Al Adha and right at the end of Mental Health Awareness Month.

It was also great to see this published after my second letter to the Children of Palestine was shared on another online exhibition with some of my paintings for Palestine.

This piece is special to me as I had been writing a lot about the challenge of alienation and solitude starting from my PhD life, Pandemic life, and then this Genocide in Gaza.

I am very happy that I published this in the Memoirist, because it is a vulnerable, personal, and confessional piece. And the Memoirist is a Medium and Substack publication that honors the craft of memoir in all of its forms.

I shared a little context at the end of the poem that describes my voice:

"My art and poetry are not simply creative outlets, but essential tools for survival, a way to reclaim voice and power in spaces that often render marginalized experiences, like my own, invisible."

I intended on sharing the piece at an open mic poetry night at my favorite joint in DC, called Busboys and Poets, like I did a few weeks ago with my poem about the Hijab shared HERE.

But I decided I will hold off until next month in July. It still remains timely as part of my efforts to close a chapter and push harder to rip off those mental chains.

There is a little more context in the Medium publication about this piece.

But I also wrote another reflection here in the Chronicles of a Warrior KQueen:

The Art of Survival: A “Prisoner of Conscience” Speaks

I reflect on the experience of how the notion of “Prisoner of conscience” has stayed with me unintentionally for different stages of my life.

It speaks to the alienation and solitude experienced in the past five years, including political alienation, and touches on the notion of healing through creativity, while embracing and honoring solitude and struggle as part of the art of survival.

Here is the poem, and please feel free to follow along the recording shared above.

Prisoner of Conscience: An Ode to Solitude

I like the snow at night.
It doesn’t feel so dark,
even in the cold.
There is a softness in this light.
Sharing some warmth.
And just for a moment,
Faith shields me.
Hope keeps me company.

I am surviving in this prison.
But I sense a fear in the silence.

I hear the stuttering rhythm of an anxious heart,
still, at least, reminding me that I might be alive.
Even as it is uncertain how I am still breathing.

A self-declared prisoner of conscience,
surrounded by walls plastered with post-it notes.

Written not by concerned citizens of the world,
but rather from the voices within.
Walls covered with fragments of me,
reminders of the intruder.

The obsessions, intrusive thoughts… compulsions,
carry impressions of me… but are not… Me.

Ruminations repeating.
Questions I can’t stop asking.
Sheets of paper that depict my life fluttering.
Prayers, I have forgotten how to recite.
They remain silent but loud witnesses,
to a messy, yet beautiful mind.

In peripheral vision, I see a poster from my college years.
The years when it all began.
It’s the poem, Footprints.

There is no beach. No seashore.
I never learned to swim, but I somehow figured out how to float.
I am drowning, and I see no shore on the horizon.
But I do see those two sets of Footprints in the snow.

And I am reminded, yet again, of a Divine calling:
Some of us are supposed to “walk alone.”
Maybe God assigns us this solitude, a blessing (in disguise).
Even as we ache for community, for humanity, for a warm embrace.

Or maybe it is possible I did this to myself.
Building the walls.
Brick by Brick by Brick.

Walls that were assumed to be my sanctuary, my refuge.
From the abandonment, betrayal, hate, and scrutiny.
From achieving the “greatness” of being misunderstood, as prescribed by Emerson.

A part of me craves pain… the hard cry. Pain is home.

There is fear in love, belonging, happiness, success, achievement, and friendship.

There is home in sadness, despair, struggle, and rejection.

There is comfort in the hush of hermitude.

This is home.

And I sleep with His Word beside me, so I can dream of the promised paradise.

Should the mind be restless…
With my paintbrush in my hand,
The ceiling transforms into a blank white canvas.

And with my imagination as the medium…I’m commanded to paint.
Like Freida Carlo in bed after her tragic accident,
Or Michelangelo and his Sistine Chapel.

And as the room turns dark,
I am reminded that I prefer the black canvas.
Hues on the black canvas can spark the Revolution.

It lets me imagine a fresh start… a clean slate.
For a new story, a long overdue beginning.

And with that paintbrush,
I paint the purple skies…

…the mountains surrounding Tbilisi.
…the fields of sunflowers in Madrid,
…the sunsets of Sindh,
…the palm trees of Karachi,
…the beaches of Barcelona and Singapore,
…the stars from the hills of Colorado,
As they appear to fall upon me,
I paint what I never believed I could.

I mustn’t forget the moon, a reminder from my old pal Rumi.
Because then I am certain that I will never walk alone.

As I see something bright peering through the blinds.
The inquisitive mind… must find,
The source of this light.

I peek out the window. There he is.
In his wholeness and highness.
My friend… expecting me.
I appreciate his patience.

I smile at his light caressing the snow.
As I look up at the moonlit sky, I must inquire:

Was it You, God, who put me in these shackles?
Or did I choose this for myself?

I may survive with gratitude…in this state of exile.
But I may always crave more.

I pray for the promise of paradise.
I mourn for the vision of freedom.

Yet, even in these chains, I paint my own sky.
I dare to dream of flight.

Thank you so much for reading and listening.

Please let me know what you think in the comments!

And do subscribe and join my space here, which honor creativity, vulnerability, authenticity, and social justice.

I hope to share another post with more interesting, exciting, and recent content from the Chronicles of the Warrior KQueen soon!

In Solidarity, Peace, Warmth, and Blessings,

Your Sister,

Dr. Elsa, Warrior KQueen

“She wasn’t looking for a Knight. She was looking for a Sword.” – Atticus

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you find my voice inspiring and necessary, I would appreciate support, as I continue my academic goals, writing dreams, and creative journey. Check out my page here to learn more: https://buymeacoffee.com/drelsatk