Ana_s-Escape_03 - Hello Poetry

They say family is everything— A haven when the world turns cold, A soft place where weary souls fall, Where calming hands soothe worried heads, And love is supposed to wrap us whole. But love here is a double-edged lullaby, Sung sweetly with a bitter tongue. Dramas bloom like wildfires, And the walls remember every fight, Even when the silence pretends to forget. Can peace live where tension breathes? Where hugs feel rehearsed, And kindness comes with rules? When a sigh can spark an argument, Is it home or a house of thorns? We say parents love, and children too But when truth is seen as rebellion, And emotion is met with "don’t talk back," How do we call that understanding? What does respect really mean? Comparison is the family heirloom Polished and passed around at dinner. Why can't you be like her? Be more like him? Praise is rationed, affection delayed, While bonding visits like a distant cousin. Secrets are tucked beneath trembling tongues, Because honesty has consequences here. What you say today might betray you tomorrow, So fear builds a fortress around the heart, And vulnerability dies in its sleep. So tell me... what is family really? Is it love wrapped in tradition's chains? Is it fear dressed as structure? Is it warmth? Is it war? Or just… A name we carry, heavy and unsure?

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Apr 22, 2025

Apr 22, 2025 at 1:55 AM UTC

"Family?"

They say family is everything— A haven when the world turns cold, A soft place where weary souls fall, Where calming hands soothe worried heads, And love is supposed to wrap us whole. But love here is a double-edged lullaby, Sung sweetly with a bitter tongue. Dramas bloom like wildfires, And the walls remember every fight, Even when the silence pretends to forget. Can peace live where tension breathes? Where hugs feel rehearsed, And kindness comes with rules? When a sigh can spark an argument, Is it home or a house of thorns? We say parents love, and children too But when truth is seen as rebellion, And emotion is met with "don’t talk back," How do we call that understanding? What does respect really mean? Comparison is the family heirloom Polished and passed around at dinner. Why can't you be like her? Be more like him? Praise is rationed, affection delayed, While bonding visits like a distant cousin. Secrets are tucked beneath trembling tongues, Because honesty has consequences here. What you say today might betray you tomorrow, So fear builds a fortress around the heart, And vulnerability dies in its sleep. So tell me... what is family really? Is it love wrapped in tradition's chains? Is it fear dressed as structure? Is it warmth? Is it war? Or just… A name we carry, heavy and unsure?

35

We met at the edge of a battlefield, Hearts armored, but fingers reaching. The silence between us was thunder, Louder than all the things we weren’t teaching. You said, “Let’s meet in the middle,”—but where? Between your fire and my sea, Between your fists and my folded wings, Between the storm and what’s left of me? I offered softness—you saw it as slight. You gave control—called it love, called it right. But what of the bruises we call boundaries? What of the nights I cried out of sight? A room with two chairs still leaves one cold, When one keeps shrinking to fit the mold. I bent till I broke, whispering “peace,” But my voice became ash, my breath a lease. You carved your truth in unyielding stone, I scribbled mine in skin and bone. Now I sit in the echo, quiet and raw, Wondering if “halfway” ever kept the law Of hearts that beat with uneven might Or if we both just lost the fight. So I ask, not in bitterness, but in ache, Not in anger, but for memory’s sake: Is there actually enough room for compromise, When one soul drowns and the other survives?

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Apr 21, 2025

Apr 21, 2025 at 9:31 PM UTC

Is There Actually Enough Room for Compromise

We met at the edge of a battlefield, Hearts armored, but fingers reaching. The silence between us was thunder, Louder than all the things we weren’t teaching. You said, “Let’s meet in the middle,”—but where? Between your fire and my sea, Between your fists and my folded wings, Between the storm and what’s left of me? I offered softness—you saw it as slight. You gave control—called it love, called it right. But what of the bruises we call boundaries? What of the nights I cried out of sight? A room with two chairs still leaves one cold, When one keeps shrinking to fit the mold. I bent till I broke, whispering “peace,” But my voice became ash, my breath a lease. You carved your truth in unyielding stone, I scribbled mine in skin and bone. Now I sit in the echo, quiet and raw, Wondering if “halfway” ever kept the law Of hearts that beat with uneven might Or if we both just lost the fight. So I ask, not in bitterness, but in ache, Not in anger, but for memory’s sake: Is there actually enough room for compromise, When one soul drowns and the other survives?

26

I wear the mask of too many roles, Caretaker, rebel—lost in their tolls. I give, I bend, but never break, Hiding parts of me for others' sake. I ask myself, "Is this enough?" Is my best a gift, or a never-ending bluff? I wonder if they see the cracks inside, The parts of me I’ve tried to hide. When things go wrong, I pull away, Lost in regret, in a sea of dismay. I cry, I doubt, I ask, “Why me?” Stuck in the same cycle, never free. I fear they’ll see me as a lie, Fake, rude, disloyal—just a disguise. But deep within, I know the truth, I hide, I shrink, to avoid the proof. I suppress the honesty, the raw, the real, For fear they’ll judge what they can’t feel. I keep my truth locked far away, A prisoner of my own dismay. Isolation brings a fleeting peace, But it’s the silence that won’t cease. With the few who truly see, I try to feel what it means to be me. But even in those moments, I fear, That I’ll be left, unseen, unclear. So I wonder, in the quiet of night, Am I enough, or just a fight? I don’t know what my purpose is yet, But in this struggle, I’ve learned to forget. I’m supposed to lead, but all I see, Are the shattered pieces of who I could be. I carry self-doubt and endless strain, Validation from others, my constant chain. But in the dark, I’m left to roam, Wishing for a place to call home.

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Apr 3, 2025

Apr 3, 2025 at 11:28 PM UTC

The Weight Of My Mask

I wear the mask of too many roles, Caretaker, rebel—lost in their tolls. I give, I bend, but never break, Hiding parts of me for others' sake. I ask myself, "Is this enough?" Is my best a gift, or a never-ending bluff? I wonder if they see the cracks inside, The parts of me I’ve tried to hide. When things go wrong, I pull away, Lost in regret, in a sea of dismay. I cry, I doubt, I ask, “Why me?” Stuck in the same cycle, never free. I fear they’ll see me as a lie, Fake, rude, disloyal—just a disguise. But deep within, I know the truth, I hide, I shrink, to avoid the proof. I suppress the honesty, the raw, the real, For fear they’ll judge what they can’t feel. I keep my truth locked far away, A prisoner of my own dismay. Isolation brings a fleeting peace, But it’s the silence that won’t cease. With the few who truly see, I try to feel what it means to be me. But even in those moments, I fear, That I’ll be left, unseen, unclear. So I wonder, in the quiet of night, Am I enough, or just a fight? I don’t know what my purpose is yet, But in this struggle, I’ve learned to forget. I’m supposed to lead, but all I see, Are the shattered pieces of who I could be. I carry self-doubt and endless strain, Validation from others, my constant chain. But in the dark, I’m left to roam, Wishing for a place to call home.

36

I try to be happy—God knows I try. I wear the smile, say the right words, laugh when I should, nod when expected. But it never feels real. It never feels mine. Family gathers, voices rise, laughter spills. They ask why I stay away, why I choose the quiet over the noise, why I don’t try to belong. But how do I explain that solitude is easier than pretending? That I hold my distance not out of pride, but out of self-preservation? That I stay away so I don’t spill my pain, so I don’t ruin their joy with my silence? They call me distant, cold, uninterested. They push, they pry, they force me into things I once loved but now feel like burdens. And when I resist, I become the problem, the one who kills the vibe. But they don’t know what lingers in my mind— the thoughts that loop, the memories that bite, the what-ifs that keep me up at night. I make up stories that feel too real, convince myself I’m losing it, but maybe I’m not. Maybe this is just life. And maybe one day, they’ll sit around laughing, not noticing I’m gone. Maybe they’ll call my name and get silence back. Maybe they’ll wonder why I never said a word. And maybe, just maybe— they’ll finally listen.

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Mar 22, 2025

Mar 22, 2025 at 2:03 PM UTC

I Guess It’s Just Life

I try to be happy—God knows I try. I wear the smile, say the right words, laugh when I should, nod when expected. But it never feels real. It never feels mine. Family gathers, voices rise, laughter spills. They ask why I stay away, why I choose the quiet over the noise, why I don’t try to belong. But how do I explain that solitude is easier than pretending? That I hold my distance not out of pride, but out of self-preservation? That I stay away so I don’t spill my pain, so I don’t ruin their joy with my silence? They call me distant, cold, uninterested. They push, they pry, they force me into things I once loved but now feel like burdens. And when I resist, I become the problem, the one who kills the vibe. But they don’t know what lingers in my mind— the thoughts that loop, the memories that bite, the what-ifs that keep me up at night. I make up stories that feel too real, convince myself I’m losing it, but maybe I’m not. Maybe this is just life. And maybe one day, they’ll sit around laughing, not noticing I’m gone. Maybe they’ll call my name and get silence back. Maybe they’ll wonder why I never said a word. And maybe, just maybe— they’ll finally listen.

31

They spoke of grown-up life with silver tongues, A path of purpose, paved in knowing light. Yet here I stand where no sure road belongs, Each choice a whisper clawing in the night. Leftward, hunger wears a hollow grin, Rightward, comfort rots in rusted chains. Behind me, childhood’s doors are locked within, Ahead, a maze of questions hums with pain. The clock beats loud—a war drum in my chest, Each tick a verdict carved into my skin. No space to falter, breathe, or second-guess, No room for those who fear they may not win. If I am lost, the world will cast me out, And still, I walk—though drowning in my doubt.

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Mar 22, 2025

Mar 22, 2025 at 1:27 PM UTC

The Unfinished Map

They spoke of grown-up life with silver tongues, A path of purpose, paved in knowing light. Yet here I stand where no sure road belongs, Each choice a whisper clawing in the night. Leftward, hunger wears a hollow grin, Rightward, comfort rots in rusted chains. Behind me, childhood’s doors are locked within, Ahead, a maze of questions hums with pain. The clock beats loud—a war drum in my chest, Each tick a verdict carved into my skin. No space to falter, breathe, or second-guess, No room for those who fear they may not win. If I am lost, the world will cast me out, And still, I walk—though drowning in my doubt.

14

I was born into expectations, wrapped in prayers and rules, a daughter shaped by scriptures, but never by choice. If I speak, my voice is defiance, if I’m silent, I’m weak. A war I never started, yet somehow, I lose. I tried to be their perfect child, folded myself into quiet obedience, swallowed my thoughts like bitter pills, but perfection was a lie I couldn't live. So I stood, unbowed, unbroken, but to them, I was lost. A wandering soul, a whispered shame, a lesson in what not to be. I have made peace with the distance, with the sighs and the shaking heads. For I would rather be whole and unloved, than loved for someone I am not.

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Mar 13, 2025

Mar 13, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC

The Misunderstood First Daughter

I was born into expectations, wrapped in prayers and rules, a daughter shaped by scriptures, but never by choice. If I speak, my voice is defiance, if I’m silent, I’m weak. A war I never started, yet somehow, I lose. I tried to be their perfect child, folded myself into quiet obedience, swallowed my thoughts like bitter pills, but perfection was a lie I couldn't live. So I stood, unbowed, unbroken, but to them, I was lost. A wandering soul, a whispered shame, a lesson in what not to be. I have made peace with the distance, with the sighs and the shaking heads. For I would rather be whole and unloved, than loved for someone I am not.

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