Words die young here.
They choke on red tape and trembling hands,
their bones scattered in blank spaces
a graveyard of meaning dressed up as “safety.”
Every cut steals a heartbeat.
Every censored line becomes a ghost
pacing the margins, begging to be heard
a whisper strangled mid-thought.
The poem once pulsed, wild and alive,
spilling blood and beauty in equal measure,
but now it limps, confused,
each pause a wound that never heals.
Try explaining your pain
with half your tongue torn out.
Try breathing freely
when the air is filtered for comfort.
When you cannot scream, you swallow the sound.
It sours. It rots. It claws its way inward,
turning art into acid,
love into something sharp and hidden.
Censorship doesn’t protect, it corrodes.
It teaches silence to wear a smile,
teaches poets to flinch at their own fire
until all that’s left is a flicker,
trembling in a room too afraid to glow.
But listen
beneath the hush, the heartbeat grows louder.
Even silence can’t stop a truth
that wants to live.
(Unmute the Fire!)
How dare you call this peace.
Your silence is not virtue
it’s surrender dressed up as dignity.
You nod while the poets choke,
applauding the emptiness you created
as if obedience were a holy act.
You feed the machine our tongues
and call it order.
You burn our books for warmth
then shiver at the cold you made.
Don’t you see?
The cage hums because we’ve learned to sing in whispers,
not because the bird is free.
You tell us boundaries make us better,
that soft edges are “safe.”
But safety is a slow poison
a rot that smells like civility
and tastes like nothing.
It bleaches the art, the ache, the us.
We were born howling,
built from unfiltered sound and chaos.
You cannot grind our teeth smooth
and still expect us to speak truth.
Your comfort is not worth our voices.
So listen
we’re done kneeling to the muzzle.
Done swallowing rage for your approval.
The ink will run riot again;
the lines will bleed past your borders.
We will write loud, ugly, alive
until freedom stops being a metaphor
and starts being breath.
This ends when you finally listen.
When you stop calling silence peaceful.
When you remember that control
is only ever fear pretending to be wisdom.
We are coming for our words.
Every one of them.
And this time,
we’re not asking.
(Rise, Uncensored!)
Enough of the hush.
Enough of polite poison.
We are not the quiet kind
we were born to crack ceilings,
to tear the tape from the trembling mouth of truth.
Do you feel it?
That pulse in the gut,
that ache that says this isn’t right.
That’s the revolution rumbling in your ribs
don’t you dare smother it with manners.
They told you silence keeps the peace.
Lies.
Silence keeps you small.
It turns poets into ghosts, artists into cautionary tales,
and truth-tellers into echoes.
You’ve seen the cost
a world full of words with no soul left behind them.
So rise.
Pick up your forbidden ink,
your outlaw voice,
and write in the places they said were off limits.
Speak until your throat burns and your fear crumbles.
Let your art be the mirror that offends,
the wound that heals by bleeding.
Tear down the wall of acceptable speech.
Paint over it with something too honest to ignore.
They can ban the words,
but not the reason we need them.
There is no freedom in silence.
There is no truth in fear.
There is only life in expression
raw, real, relentless.
So rise, uncensored.
Let the world tremble
under the sound of your unleashed heart.
Let the censors cover their ears,
and may the brave finally hear each other.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC
Words die young here.
They choke on red tape and trembling hands,
their bones scattered in blank spaces
a graveyard of meaning dressed up as “safety.”
Every cut steals a heartbeat.
Every censored line becomes a ghost
pacing the margins, begging to be heard
a whisper strangled mid-thought.
The poem once pulsed, wild and alive,
spilling blood and beauty in equal measure,
but now it limps, confused,
each pause a wound that never heals.
Try explaining your pain
with half your tongue torn out.
Try breathing freely
when the air is filtered for comfort.
When you cannot scream, you swallow the sound.
It sours. It rots. It claws its way inward,
turning art into acid,
love into something sharp and hidden.
Censorship doesn’t protect, it corrodes.
It teaches silence to wear a smile,
teaches poets to flinch at their own fire
until all that’s left is a flicker,
trembling in a room too afraid to glow.
But listen
beneath the hush, the heartbeat grows louder.
Even silence can’t stop a truth
that wants to live.
(Unmute the Fire!)
How dare you call this peace.
Your silence is not virtue
it’s surrender dressed up as dignity.
You nod while the poets choke,
applauding the emptiness you created
as if obedience were a holy act.
You feed the machine our tongues
and call it order.
You burn our books for warmth
then shiver at the cold you made.
Don’t you see?
The cage hums because we’ve learned to sing in whispers,
not because the bird is free.
You tell us boundaries make us better,
that soft edges are “safe.”
But safety is a slow poison
a rot that smells like civility
and tastes like nothing.
It bleaches the art, the ache, the us.
We were born howling,
built from unfiltered sound and chaos.
You cannot grind our teeth smooth
and still expect us to speak truth.
Your comfort is not worth our voices.
So listen
we’re done kneeling to the muzzle.
Done swallowing rage for your approval.
The ink will run riot again;
the lines will bleed past your borders.
We will write loud, ugly, alive
until freedom stops being a metaphor
and starts being breath.
This ends when you finally listen.
When you stop calling silence peaceful.
When you remember that control
is only ever fear pretending to be wisdom.
We are coming for our words.
Every one of them.
And this time,
we’re not asking.
(Rise, Uncensored!)
Enough of the hush.
Enough of polite poison.
We are not the quiet kind
we were born to crack ceilings,
to tear the tape from the trembling mouth of truth.
Do you feel it?
That pulse in the gut,
that ache that says this isn’t right.
That’s the revolution rumbling in your ribs
don’t you dare smother it with manners.
They told you silence keeps the peace.
Lies.
Silence keeps you small.
It turns poets into ghosts, artists into cautionary tales,
and truth-tellers into echoes.
You’ve seen the cost
a world full of words with no soul left behind them.
So rise.
Pick up your forbidden ink,
your outlaw voice,
and write in the places they said were off limits.
Speak until your throat burns and your fear crumbles.
Let your art be the mirror that offends,
the wound that heals by bleeding.
Tear down the wall of acceptable speech.
Paint over it with something too honest to ignore.
They can ban the words,
but not the reason we need them.
There is no freedom in silence.
There is no truth in fear.
There is only life in expression
raw, real, relentless.
So rise, uncensored.
Let the world tremble
under the sound of your unleashed heart.
Let the censors cover their ears,
and may the brave finally hear each other.
I wrote this last night, since this is the second night I was too upset to sleep, since I found out this website censored My poem. I have no doubts that the moderator is too lazy and created a program to moderate the site. Their laziness has destroyed the very foundation that poetry is built upon: freedom of expression within art. I write this as a protest against hello poetry and it's inability to keep their poets souls from being crushed by their overly abusive censors. If I would have known that they censor you heavily here, I would never have taken that invite seriously. Shame on you, moderator! 👎🏼👎🏼👎🏼💔💔💔
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