What is poetry to me?
A cathartic space to vent and be.
I break the shell and ring the bell,
Words are guns, and protest's my spell.
I fire words while the world's asleep,
My rhymes are the restless ones' keep.
We stoke the ink to keep us warm,
A quiet eye inside the storm.
While silence rots the roots of men,
I sharpen the blade within my pen.
The sun will rise on what I’ve said,
A wake-up call for the living dead.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 8:29 AM UTC
What is poetry to me?
A cathartic space to vent and be.
I break the shell and ring the bell,
Words are guns, and protest's my spell.
I fire words while the world's asleep,
My rhymes are the restless ones' keep.
We stoke the ink to keep us warm,
A quiet eye inside the storm.
While silence rots the roots of men,
I sharpen the blade within my pen.
The sun will rise on what I’ve said,
A wake-up call for the living dead.
