SoulPhelan_Unbound - Hello Poetry

She was there— barefoot in the dust of a thousand battles, skirt hem soaked in the sweat of fields she did not own. Her hands, raw from the weight of picket signs and plow handles, gripped the edges of history, pulling it toward her like a stubborn thread. They wrote her out of the story, but she pressed ink to paper, pressed footprints into roads where no woman had walked before, pressed her voice into the air until it cracked open the sky. She is here— spine straight under the weight of expectation, heels clicking against marble floors, boots sinking into the soil of land she now calls her own. She stitches wounds with steady hands, writes laws with the same fingers that once curled into fists. She feeds, she builds, she leads— a quiet rebellion in the way she simply refuses to break. She will be— a name carved into the bones of tomorrow, a shadow stretching past the horizon, a flame catching on the hem of a new world. She will stand at the edge of invention, her hands steady on the wheel of what’s to come, eyes sharp as a blade against the spine of fate. She will not ask permission. She will not wait her turn. She rises. She has always risen. She will rise again.

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Mar 2, 2025

Mar 2, 2025 at 11:53 AM UTC

She Was. She Is. She Will Be.

She was there— barefoot in the dust of a thousand battles, skirt hem soaked in the sweat of fields she did not own. Her hands, raw from the weight of picket signs and plow handles, gripped the edges of history, pulling it toward her like a stubborn thread. They wrote her out of the story, but she pressed ink to paper, pressed footprints into roads where no woman had walked before, pressed her voice into the air until it cracked open the sky. She is here— spine straight under the weight of expectation, heels clicking against marble floors, boots sinking into the soil of land she now calls her own. She stitches wounds with steady hands, writes laws with the same fingers that once curled into fists. She feeds, she builds, she leads— a quiet rebellion in the way she simply refuses to break. She will be— a name carved into the bones of tomorrow, a shadow stretching past the horizon, a flame catching on the hem of a new world. She will stand at the edge of invention, her hands steady on the wheel of what’s to come, eyes sharp as a blade against the spine of fate. She will not ask permission. She will not wait her turn. She rises. She has always risen. She will rise again.

31

The walls tremble before the doors do, before his voice splits the air like a storm, before Mom folds herself into silence, before my brother pulls me into the closet, his hand firm over my mouth, as if my breath could betray us. Mom whispers, “It’s okay, go to bed.” But I count the slams, the crashes, the cries— and wonder if children like me ever learn how to sleep. I stay because I love them, because they need shelter, food, warmth— because he wasn’t always this way. Because I don’t know how to leave with nothing but two small hands gripping mine. It’s not always bad. Not always. And they need their father. Don’t they? She won’t leave. She can’t. There’s nowhere to go, no money, no lifeline— not with two kids and a court that won’t see past him. A good man. A working man. A provider. So I let her cry in the dark, let her call it what it is—hell— but tomorrow she’ll still pack lunches and fold clothes. She’ll still tuck us in at night. She’ll stay. Because that’s what mothers do. You don’t leave over a bad temper, do you? Men get angry. Women overreact. He’s stressed; she should be more patient. He works hard; isn’t that enough? At least he’s here. At least we have a roof. At least the kids have a father. At least. For the kids, she stayed. For the kids, I watched and learned: that love is sacrifice even when it shatters you; that family is loyalty even when it bleeds; that silence is safety even when it suffocates you. For the kids, I found someone just like him. For the kids, my brother left fingerprints on his wife’s arm. For the kids, we swore we’d never be like them— but we were already broken in their image. For the kids, we stayed in pieces too long. For the kids, we told ourselves lies we didn’t believe: “It’s different this time.” “It’s not so bad.” “We’re doing it for them.” Love does not slam doors off their hinges. Love does not leave bruises hidden beneath sleeves. Love does not shrink you until your children can barely find you anymore. Love does not teach daughters to endure pain as proof of devotion— or sons to wield anger as power over others. Love is open arms and steady hands; it is words that heal instead of wound. Love is a home where no one has to run or hide or whisper “It’s okay” through tears. Love is leaving when staying means breaking— it is showing your children that love should never be feared. Love is a mother who stands tall enough for her children to see her strength. Love is a father who earns respect without demanding fear. Love is a child who never has to wonder: “Is this normal?”

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Feb 14, 2025

Feb 14, 2025 at 4:15 PM UTC

The Lies We Tell Ourselves on Valentine’s Day

The walls tremble before the doors do, before his voice splits the air like a storm, before Mom folds herself into silence, before my brother pulls me into the closet, his hand firm over my mouth, as if my breath could betray us. Mom whispers, “It’s okay, go to bed.” But I count the slams, the crashes, the cries— and wonder if children like me ever learn how to sleep. I stay because I love them, because they need shelter, food, warmth— because he wasn’t always this way. Because I don’t know how to leave with nothing but two small hands gripping mine. It’s not always bad. Not always. And they need their father. Don’t they? She won’t leave. She can’t. There’s nowhere to go, no money, no lifeline— not with two kids and a court that won’t see past him. A good man. A working man. A provider. So I let her cry in the dark, let her call it what it is—hell— but tomorrow she’ll still pack lunches and fold clothes. She’ll still tuck us in at night. She’ll stay. Because that’s what mothers do. You don’t leave over a bad temper, do you? Men get angry. Women overreact. He’s stressed; she should be more patient. He works hard; isn’t that enough? At least he’s here. At least we have a roof. At least the kids have a father. At least. For the kids, she stayed. For the kids, I watched and learned: that love is sacrifice even when it shatters you; that family is loyalty even when it bleeds; that silence is safety even when it suffocates you. For the kids, I found someone just like him. For the kids, my brother left fingerprints on his wife’s arm. For the kids, we swore we’d never be like them— but we were already broken in their image. For the kids, we stayed in pieces too long. For the kids, we told ourselves lies we didn’t believe: “It’s different this time.” “It’s not so bad.” “We’re doing it for them.” Love does not slam doors off their hinges. Love does not leave bruises hidden beneath sleeves. Love does not shrink you until your children can barely find you anymore. Love does not teach daughters to endure pain as proof of devotion— or sons to wield anger as power over others. Love is open arms and steady hands; it is words that heal instead of wound. Love is a home where no one has to run or hide or whisper “It’s okay” through tears. Love is leaving when staying means breaking— it is showing your children that love should never be feared. Love is a mother who stands tall enough for her children to see her strength. Love is a father who earns respect without demanding fear. Love is a child who never has to wonder: “Is this normal?”

61

The most substantial burden women have ever endured was not the weight of motherhood, nor the physical toll of childbirth, nor the exhaustive list of responsibilities, including appointments, bills, meals, and future plans, that they often undertook alone. The most substantial burden women have ever endured was the weight of a man's ego. Fragile as glass, yet razor-sharp, it constantly required polishing, yet was incapable of shining independently. A man who made promises he failed to keep, who spoke of sacrifice but never made any, who relied on women to do the work while he took the credit. A man who needed constant reminders, coaching, and guidance, yet claimed to have accomplished everything on his own. And when women sought truth, held up the mirror, and dared to say, 'You are not who you pretend to be,' his world crumbled. Not because it was untrue, but because he was exposed. And that was the real transgression. For men can deceive, fail, and break promises with impunity, yet a woman who speaks the truth is vilified. She is cruel, vicious, and ungrateful for all that he almost did. And still, she carries the weight of everything: the household, children, meals, laundry, bills, plans, his future, failures, and lies. While he claims it is hard for him, asks if she cannot simply be nice, and reminds her that he works hard for her. But what does a man work for if his home is merely a place for a woman to serve, to build his life while sacrificing her own? And what could women achieve if they never had to bear the weight of a man?

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Feb 10, 2025

Feb 10, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC

THE WEIGHT OF A MAN

The most substantial burden women have ever endured was not the weight of motherhood, nor the physical toll of childbirth, nor the exhaustive list of responsibilities, including appointments, bills, meals, and future plans, that they often undertook alone. The most substantial burden women have ever endured was the weight of a man's ego. Fragile as glass, yet razor-sharp, it constantly required polishing, yet was incapable of shining independently. A man who made promises he failed to keep, who spoke of sacrifice but never made any, who relied on women to do the work while he took the credit. A man who needed constant reminders, coaching, and guidance, yet claimed to have accomplished everything on his own. And when women sought truth, held up the mirror, and dared to say, 'You are not who you pretend to be,' his world crumbled. Not because it was untrue, but because he was exposed. And that was the real transgression. For men can deceive, fail, and break promises with impunity, yet a woman who speaks the truth is vilified. She is cruel, vicious, and ungrateful for all that he almost did. And still, she carries the weight of everything: the household, children, meals, laundry, bills, plans, his future, failures, and lies. While he claims it is hard for him, asks if she cannot simply be nice, and reminds her that he works hard for her. But what does a man work for if his home is merely a place for a woman to serve, to build his life while sacrificing her own? And what could women achieve if they never had to bear the weight of a man?

14

It begins with a whisper, a shadow stitched to her womb, its weight pressing like a secret, its roots spreading unseen. They call it normal— the blood that floods like rivers, the cramps that steal her breath, the clots dragging her body down. Pain coils in her pelvis, a fire that burns without end. Her bladder aches, her bowels rebel, her back bends beneath its weight. They say it’s just being a woman, but how do you explain the storms? The tissue growing where it shouldn’t, the scars binding organs into one. She carries fatigue like a second skin, her energy drained by invisible wars. Her body becomes a battlefield— every nerve alive with rebellion. Doctors speak over her pain: It’s all in your head, they insist. But how do you imagine blood that stains, or pain that splits you in two? One day, she stops asking for answers. She stands tall in the face of dismissal. Her voice rises like thunder: This is my body; I know it best. Her womb is no longer their battlefield; it is sacred ground she reclaims. The shadow no longer consumes her— it becomes part of her story, not its end.

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Feb 4, 2025

Feb 4, 2025 at 9:02 PM UTC

Pain as a Shadow

It begins with a whisper, a shadow stitched to her womb, its weight pressing like a secret, its roots spreading unseen. They call it normal— the blood that floods like rivers, the cramps that steal her breath, the clots dragging her body down. Pain coils in her pelvis, a fire that burns without end. Her bladder aches, her bowels rebel, her back bends beneath its weight. They say it’s just being a woman, but how do you explain the storms? The tissue growing where it shouldn’t, the scars binding organs into one. She carries fatigue like a second skin, her energy drained by invisible wars. Her body becomes a battlefield— every nerve alive with rebellion. Doctors speak over her pain: It’s all in your head, they insist. But how do you imagine blood that stains, or pain that splits you in two? One day, she stops asking for answers. She stands tall in the face of dismissal. Her voice rises like thunder: This is my body; I know it best. Her womb is no longer their battlefield; it is sacred ground she reclaims. The shadow no longer consumes her— it becomes part of her story, not its end.

32

In tenth grade, a boy said, “Washington, D.C. is in Virginia.” I corrected him— said it was neither and both, its own district. The teacher Googled it, read the truth out loud, then turned to me and said, “Apologize for disrupting the class.” So I did. And I have been saying sorry ever since. Sorry for knowing too much. For being too passionate, too emotional, too empathetic. Too much when I demand respect, too much when I react the way others do to me— but when I do it, it's wrong. I have learned that women must shrink to be acceptable. To be small enough to be tolerated. To swallow knowledge so it does not spill out and threaten fragile egos. To let silence replace truth because truth makes them uneasy. We are taught to apologize young. Sorry for our hair in the drain, for needing tampons and pads, for the price of our own biology. Sorry for bleeding, for growing, for existing in spaces where men believe we should not be. By puberty, we know— our bodies are currency, our voices are burdens, our presence requires permission. But not me. Not anymore. I have stood my ground— faced cruelty when it came for those I loved, thrown words like knives because no one else would protect them. I have refused to step aside— to move for those who walk as if they own the world. If you do not see me, you will feel me. I will not apologize for choosing my family over expectations. For shutting out the noise of a world that demands too much. For putting my healing first— even when it makes others uncomfortable. I will not apologize for being a woman. I will not apologize for the space I take up, for the voice I refuse to quiet, for the boundaries I dare to keep. I am done paying the apology tax— a tax I never owed in the first place. And now? I am collecting every debt: every moment of silence stolen from me, every inch of space I was told to surrender, every truth I swallowed so someone else could feel whole. I am done saying sorry for being whole myself. Let them learn to carry their discomfort—because I won’t carry it for them anymore

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Feb 2, 2025

Feb 2, 2025 at 7:30 PM UTC

The Apology Tax

In tenth grade, a boy said, “Washington, D.C. is in Virginia.” I corrected him— said it was neither and both, its own district. The teacher Googled it, read the truth out loud, then turned to me and said, “Apologize for disrupting the class.” So I did. And I have been saying sorry ever since. Sorry for knowing too much. For being too passionate, too emotional, too empathetic. Too much when I demand respect, too much when I react the way others do to me— but when I do it, it's wrong. I have learned that women must shrink to be acceptable. To be small enough to be tolerated. To swallow knowledge so it does not spill out and threaten fragile egos. To let silence replace truth because truth makes them uneasy. We are taught to apologize young. Sorry for our hair in the drain, for needing tampons and pads, for the price of our own biology. Sorry for bleeding, for growing, for existing in spaces where men believe we should not be. By puberty, we know— our bodies are currency, our voices are burdens, our presence requires permission. But not me. Not anymore. I have stood my ground— faced cruelty when it came for those I loved, thrown words like knives because no one else would protect them. I have refused to step aside— to move for those who walk as if they own the world. If you do not see me, you will feel me. I will not apologize for choosing my family over expectations. For shutting out the noise of a world that demands too much. For putting my healing first— even when it makes others uncomfortable. I will not apologize for being a woman. I will not apologize for the space I take up, for the voice I refuse to quiet, for the boundaries I dare to keep. I am done paying the apology tax— a tax I never owed in the first place. And now? I am collecting every debt: every moment of silence stolen from me, every inch of space I was told to surrender, every truth I swallowed so someone else could feel whole. I am done saying sorry for being whole myself. Let them learn to carry their discomfort—because I won’t carry it for them anymore

61

When the marriage ends, and the child is still too small to understand what's been torn, why is it that the man tells his friends— "She was crazy." "She never got off her ass." "She was too emotional." "She never took care of the kids." And no one asks him, "Why did you stay?" Why did you have children with her? Why did you marry her in the first place? Why does she have full custody now?" No one dares to ask, because they already know. Men stay— for the comfort of control, for the invisible chains that bind women with babies, with promises that were never kept. They know, the way a child knows their mother’s touch but never her heart. The man knows his power in her silence, in her labor, in her sacrifices— the ones no one sees but her. And yet, when she walks away, they ask her, "Why did you stay so long?" Because they know the cost of leaving was more than she could afford. But still she walked. Still she left. Why did she stay? For the love she thought might change him. For the chance that maybe—just maybe— he’d become the man she believed in. For the hope that her children would have a father who cared. But he didn’t. He stayed because he knew— the house wouldn’t run without her. The kids wouldn’t be fed, the bills wouldn’t be paid, and the image of a family was more important than the truth. Men stay because it’s easier to claim a woman than to be the man they promised to be. And when she leaves, they don’t ask themselves, "Why couldn’t I be better?" They just ask, "Why did she stay so long?"

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Feb 2, 2025

Feb 2, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC

The Unasked Questions

When the marriage ends, and the child is still too small to understand what's been torn, why is it that the man tells his friends— "She was crazy." "She never got off her ass." "She was too emotional." "She never took care of the kids." And no one asks him, "Why did you stay?" Why did you have children with her? Why did you marry her in the first place? Why does she have full custody now?" No one dares to ask, because they already know. Men stay— for the comfort of control, for the invisible chains that bind women with babies, with promises that were never kept. They know, the way a child knows their mother’s touch but never her heart. The man knows his power in her silence, in her labor, in her sacrifices— the ones no one sees but her. And yet, when she walks away, they ask her, "Why did you stay so long?" Because they know the cost of leaving was more than she could afford. But still she walked. Still she left. Why did she stay? For the love she thought might change him. For the chance that maybe—just maybe— he’d become the man she believed in. For the hope that her children would have a father who cared. But he didn’t. He stayed because he knew— the house wouldn’t run without her. The kids wouldn’t be fed, the bills wouldn’t be paid, and the image of a family was more important than the truth. Men stay because it’s easier to claim a woman than to be the man they promised to be. And when she leaves, they don’t ask themselves, "Why couldn’t I be better?" They just ask, "Why did she stay so long?"

50

My strength is not borrowed— it was forged in silence, hammered by pain, and tempered in the fires of survival. It does not come from borrowed fabrics or shallow wells of comparison; it is carved from my marrow, stitched into my skin with my own hands. You cannot wield my wounds against me. I have held them like stones— felt their jagged edges, their weight pressing into my palms— and I have built something greater than suffering. Vulnerability is not weakness; it is the raw truth of my existence: the mirror I no longer fear, the voice that does not waver, the heartbeat steady beneath scrutiny. Speak of me if you must— but your words echo only within walls you have built to contain your own fears. They do not define me; they do not alter my course. Compare me if it soothes you. Measure my steps against your own. But know this: my journey is mine— unshaken by your judgment, untouched by your doubts. I walk with confidence— not from arrogance, but from knowing: I have faced myself in the darkest hours, and I did not flinch.

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Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 1:28 PM UTC

Cartographies of Resilience

My strength is not borrowed— it was forged in silence, hammered by pain, and tempered in the fires of survival. It does not come from borrowed fabrics or shallow wells of comparison; it is carved from my marrow, stitched into my skin with my own hands. You cannot wield my wounds against me. I have held them like stones— felt their jagged edges, their weight pressing into my palms— and I have built something greater than suffering. Vulnerability is not weakness; it is the raw truth of my existence: the mirror I no longer fear, the voice that does not waver, the heartbeat steady beneath scrutiny. Speak of me if you must— but your words echo only within walls you have built to contain your own fears. They do not define me; they do not alter my course. Compare me if it soothes you. Measure my steps against your own. But know this: my journey is mine— unshaken by your judgment, untouched by your doubts. I walk with confidence— not from arrogance, but from knowing: I have faced myself in the darkest hours, and I did not flinch.

33

Four centuries pass, yet echoes remain, A woman’s cry met with silence again. Laws were written, inked with good grace, Yet bruises still bloom in the same hidden place. The chains are less visible, but still they confine, A whisper, a threat—unwritten lines. Justice pretends to be blind and fair, But turns away when she’s gasping for air. She flees, she pleads, but where can she go? The system still asks what she should have known. “Why did you stay?” they say with a sigh, As if love was her crime, as if she chose to die. Four hundred years, yet history repeats— A woman still fights to stand on her feet.

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Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 6:27 AM UTC

Four Hundred Years and Still

Four centuries pass, yet echoes remain, A woman’s cry met with silence again. Laws were written, inked with good grace, Yet bruises still bloom in the same hidden place. The chains are less visible, but still they confine, A whisper, a threat—unwritten lines. Justice pretends to be blind and fair, But turns away when she’s gasping for air. She flees, she pleads, but where can she go? The system still asks what she should have known. “Why did you stay?” they say with a sigh, As if love was her crime, as if she chose to die. Four hundred years, yet history repeats— A woman still fights to stand on her feet.

14

They tell her, it’s not their place. Say, he’s always been good to me. Say, she should have left sooner. They say a lot of things, but never the ones that matter. Her black eye is a private matter. Her broken ribs, just a lover’s spat. Her ****** A tragedy— but never a crime until her name is trending in the headlines. When she packed her bags, they called her selfish for breaking the family. When she stayed, they called her weak for not leaving. But where was she supposed to go? Shelters with no room? A courtroom where his lies outweigh her bruises? A graveyard where they’d whisper, She should have known better? They say, not all men. Say, he was under stress. Say, he’s a good dad, as if a man who leaves his children hungry, their mother in pieces, is anything but a walking threat. And you— the man who doesn’t hit, but laughs at the ones who do. The one who turns away when your friend grabs her wrist too hard. The one who stays silent when your coworker brags, "I keep my woman in line." You are part of this. You are why she doesn’t call for help. Why she learns to stitch her own wounds in silence. Why she dies and they ask what she did to deserve it. The system says, report him. Then calls her bitter. Then hands him weekends with the children— the same children he left cowering behind locked doors. And when she’s gone, they’ll ask: Why didn’t she say something? But all she ever did was scream into a void of indifferent men, silent women, and a world that let her be hunted. So hear this now: If you know, speak. If you see, stop him. If you call yourself an ally, act. Because the only men who fear consequences are the ones who know they deserve them.

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Jan 29, 2025

Jan 29, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC

Bruised by Silence, Built on Indifference

They tell her, it’s not their place. Say, he’s always been good to me. Say, she should have left sooner. They say a lot of things, but never the ones that matter. Her black eye is a private matter. Her broken ribs, just a lover’s spat. Her ****** A tragedy— but never a crime until her name is trending in the headlines. When she packed her bags, they called her selfish for breaking the family. When she stayed, they called her weak for not leaving. But where was she supposed to go? Shelters with no room? A courtroom where his lies outweigh her bruises? A graveyard where they’d whisper, She should have known better? They say, not all men. Say, he was under stress. Say, he’s a good dad, as if a man who leaves his children hungry, their mother in pieces, is anything but a walking threat. And you— the man who doesn’t hit, but laughs at the ones who do. The one who turns away when your friend grabs her wrist too hard. The one who stays silent when your coworker brags, "I keep my woman in line." You are part of this. You are why she doesn’t call for help. Why she learns to stitch her own wounds in silence. Why she dies and they ask what she did to deserve it. The system says, report him. Then calls her bitter. Then hands him weekends with the children— the same children he left cowering behind locked doors. And when she’s gone, they’ll ask: Why didn’t she say something? But all she ever did was scream into a void of indifferent men, silent women, and a world that let her be hunted. So hear this now: If you know, speak. If you see, stop him. If you call yourself an ally, act. Because the only men who fear consequences are the ones who know they deserve them.

51

Our first snowfall two teenagers driving through Maryland’s quiet streets, snowflakes soft as whispers, pausing the world, binding us in its stillness. Years later, Montana welcomed us, its snow blanketing base housing, our son’s laughter rising like smoke in the cold. Soon, we welcomed our daughter, her presence as gentle as freshly fallen snow, our family growing beneath the frosted skies. In New Hampshire, snow wrapped us as four, a family held close through a winter of unknowns, its quiet presence a reminder of resilience, of love weathering every storm. And now, in Florida— where the sun reigns and snow should be a stranger, it falls again. Five hours of wonder cascading from the heavens, a gift from the elements, blessing this home, this moment, this us. Snow has followed our beginnings— each new chapter marked in white. It shields, it cleanses, a quiet protector cloaked in frost, a sacred pause to reflect, to remember, to hold close the warmth of our bond. May it always find us, this quiet magic, this pure renewal, reminding us that wherever we are, we are blessed, we are whole, and we are home.

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Jan 21, 2025

Jan 21, 2025 at 9:27 PM UTC

Where Snow Meets Us

Our first snowfall two teenagers driving through Maryland’s quiet streets, snowflakes soft as whispers, pausing the world, binding us in its stillness. Years later, Montana welcomed us, its snow blanketing base housing, our son’s laughter rising like smoke in the cold. Soon, we welcomed our daughter, her presence as gentle as freshly fallen snow, our family growing beneath the frosted skies. In New Hampshire, snow wrapped us as four, a family held close through a winter of unknowns, its quiet presence a reminder of resilience, of love weathering every storm. And now, in Florida— where the sun reigns and snow should be a stranger, it falls again. Five hours of wonder cascading from the heavens, a gift from the elements, blessing this home, this moment, this us. Snow has followed our beginnings— each new chapter marked in white. It shields, it cleanses, a quiet protector cloaked in frost, a sacred pause to reflect, to remember, to hold close the warmth of our bond. May it always find us, this quiet magic, this pure renewal, reminding us that wherever we are, we are blessed, we are whole, and we are home.

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