How Will I Ever Get Out Of This Labyrinth?

Poetry is first and foremost a form of protest. Poetry protests against humanity's monstrous indifference to itself. Poetry protests as the light of love fades with the rising sun. Poetry protests for memories that ought not be forgot yet were scarcely ever known to the world. Wherever there is confusion contradiction uncertainty - there poetry is born. It springs uncontained from cold bedsheets from heavy tombstones lined up in hundreds and thousands from the cracks that tear the skies and ground of ramshackle camps. It is found on the tongue on papers on screens in minds written on hearts. Poetry when exposed to the world becomes a call for resistance. No longer can it tolerate the bounds of quiet displeasure. No more will it sit down and talk - now perching defiant on a line it shouts and is heard. What follows is a year of contradictions of uncertainties of poetic protest of questions: How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?