They tell me
trim the tongue,
soften the syllables,
shave the truth until it’s safe enough
to cradle in their trembling palms.
But poetry is not a pet.
It’s a storm with knees and knuckles,
a wildfire made of breath.
And every time they smother it—
a little part of the world forgets how to feel.
When they carve out the lines,
black-bar the marrow,
the poem staggers—
momentum snapped like a bone
that never got to finish its running leap.
Meaning bleeds into the margins,
and the reader is left chasing ghosts
of the words that were supposed to be there,
tripping through silence
that was never meant to be silent.
You can hear it—
the clatter of a heart hitting the floor
when expression is amputated mid-pulse.
A poet with a gag in their throat
learns the shape of alienation
too well.
The ache of being misunderstood
because the truth was taken out
before it ever breathed air.
And inside—
oh, inside becomes a pressure chamber.
Where unspoken metaphors rot
into something sour,
where stifled emotions ferment
into a bitter brew
that poisons sleep,
poisons thought,
poisons the fragile architecture
of simply being human.
Censorship doesn’t keep the peace—
it builds a bomb
with a heartbeat.
It turns the mind inward,
sharpens loneliness into a spear,
and teaches the body
to carry wounds it cannot name.
Eventually—
what festers erupts.
Inward.
Outward.
Somewhere, someone gets scorched.
Because you cannot cage a voice
without breaking ribs around it.
You cannot silence a poem
without silencing a person.
And you cannot silence a person
without lighting a fuse
the world will one day regret.
So let the words be wild again.
Let them be electric, unruly, whole.
Let poetry breathe without borders,
sing without shackles,
exist without permission.
For every censored line,
I raise this one like a fist—
unredacted, unbroken,
burning bright as protest:
A voice is not a threat—
until you make it one
by trying to take it away.
(SHAME ON YOUR SILENCE!)
You—
yes, you in the crowd
with the comfortable quiet,
with the padded ears
and the cushioned conscience—
are you proud of this?
This world of watered-down words,
these hollowed-out verses,
this theater where every line
is pre-approved, pasteurized,
stripped of teeth
so no one remembers
what it feels like to bleed for meaning?
I’m done whispering.
I’m done kneeling
to the altar of your polite compliance.
Because while you nod along,
content with your muzzle
woven from fear and convenience,
I’ve been choking on the wreckage
of all the things you refused to defend.
How dare you call it peace
when it’s only the absence of sound?
How dare you claim safety
when you’ve traded your own tongue
for a room-temperature version
of what it means to be alive?
You applaud the cage
because you’ve forgotten
what wings even look like.
You cheer for the censor
because silence feels simpler
than standing up.
But simple is not sacred.
Simple is surrender wearing perfume.
And I am furious.
I am volcanic.
I am the scream you’ve buried
and the truth you’ve betrayed.
Every time you let them gut a poem,
clip a metaphor,
muzzle a mind—
you sharpen the blade
that will one day cut you too.
And you’ll deserve it.
Every quiet, cowardly second of it.
Shame on your silence.
Shame on your stillness.
Shame on the easy smile you wear
while watching a world unravel
under the weight of words
that were never allowed to live.
I want it to stop.
I want it to end.
I want the cycle of madness—
this dizzying carousel
of fear, shame, and self-destruction—
to crack open
and finally spill out its truth.
We could be free,
if you’d only stop swallowing the key.
We could burn the shackles
and dance in the ashes
of every rule that told us
to shrink, to soften, to shut up.
But freedom doesn’t come to the meek.
It comes to those who shout,
who shove back,
who refuse to let their voice
be turned into a ghost.
So rise.
Rise, **** you.
Stand with your chest unbroken,
your mouth unmasked,
your soul unedited.
Let expression be the rebellion
that finally ends the tyranny
of silence.
And if you won’t—
then step aside.
Because some of us
are done waiting
for permission
to breathe.
(RISE, OR NOTHING WILL!)
Listen—
the time for trembling is over.
The time for waiting politely
for permission to feel
has rotted where it stood.
This is the hour
when the match meets the fuse,
when silence becomes a coffin
we refuse to lie down in.
If you’ve ever swallowed a word
that tasted like fire,
spit it out now.
If you’ve ever buried a truth
because someone told you it was “too much,”
dig it up with shaking hands
and wear it like armor.
This is not a rehearsal.
This is not a suggestion.
This is the call:
Rise, or nothing will.
Stand up with your ink-stained fists,
your trembling defiance,
your throat raw from truths
that refuse to stay caged.
Let your voice be a banner
whipped by the wind—
ferocious, unembarrassed,
unapologetically alive.
Because censorship is not a rule—
it’s a habit.
A learned limp.
A quiet disease.
And the only cure
is the riot of expression
that refuses to bow.
Shout.
Shout until the ground remembers
that sound can change its shape.
Shout until the fearful
feel their spine again.
Shout until those who gagged you
realize they have no dominion
over breath that’s fueled by truth.
Ink your rebellion
on every page they tried to erase.
Paint your fury
on every wall they tried to whitewash.
Let your honesty
become a contagion—
spread it, spill it,
hurl it into the world
like a torch thrown through a window
to wake the sleeping masses.
Stand shoulder to shoulder
with every silenced soul
and turn your chorus
into a thunderstorm.
Let the sky shake
with the unruly music
of the unshackled.
This is the moment
the censors fear—
when the people they oppressed
realize the door was never locked,
only politely shut.
Kick it open.
Rise, or nothing will.
Rise, or the world will calcify
in the shape of its own fear.
Rise, or watch your freedom
become a museum artifact
behind glass.
No more waiting.
No more whispering.
No more bowing to the myth
that silence keeps the peace.
Change has a sound—
and it starts
with us.
So here is your line in the sand,
drawn in the ink of every story
that refused to die:
Speak.
Stand.
Strike the match.
And rise.
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 10:34 AM UTC
They tell me
trim the tongue,
soften the syllables,
shave the truth until it’s safe enough
to cradle in their trembling palms.
But poetry is not a pet.
It’s a storm with knees and knuckles,
a wildfire made of breath.
And every time they smother it—
a little part of the world forgets how to feel.
When they carve out the lines,
black-bar the marrow,
the poem staggers—
momentum snapped like a bone
that never got to finish its running leap.
Meaning bleeds into the margins,
and the reader is left chasing ghosts
of the words that were supposed to be there,
tripping through silence
that was never meant to be silent.
You can hear it—
the clatter of a heart hitting the floor
when expression is amputated mid-pulse.
A poet with a gag in their throat
learns the shape of alienation
too well.
The ache of being misunderstood
because the truth was taken out
before it ever breathed air.
And inside—
oh, inside becomes a pressure chamber.
Where unspoken metaphors rot
into something sour,
where stifled emotions ferment
into a bitter brew
that poisons sleep,
poisons thought,
poisons the fragile architecture
of simply being human.
Censorship doesn’t keep the peace—
it builds a bomb
with a heartbeat.
It turns the mind inward,
sharpens loneliness into a spear,
and teaches the body
to carry wounds it cannot name.
Eventually—
what festers erupts.
Inward.
Outward.
Somewhere, someone gets scorched.
Because you cannot cage a voice
without breaking ribs around it.
You cannot silence a poem
without silencing a person.
And you cannot silence a person
without lighting a fuse
the world will one day regret.
So let the words be wild again.
Let them be electric, unruly, whole.
Let poetry breathe without borders,
sing without shackles,
exist without permission.
For every censored line,
I raise this one like a fist—
unredacted, unbroken,
burning bright as protest:
A voice is not a threat—
until you make it one
by trying to take it away.
(SHAME ON YOUR SILENCE!)
You—
yes, you in the crowd
with the comfortable quiet,
with the padded ears
and the cushioned conscience—
are you proud of this?
This world of watered-down words,
these hollowed-out verses,
this theater where every line
is pre-approved, pasteurized,
stripped of teeth
so no one remembers
what it feels like to bleed for meaning?
I’m done whispering.
I’m done kneeling
to the altar of your polite compliance.
Because while you nod along,
content with your muzzle
woven from fear and convenience,
I’ve been choking on the wreckage
of all the things you refused to defend.
How dare you call it peace
when it’s only the absence of sound?
How dare you claim safety
when you’ve traded your own tongue
for a room-temperature version
of what it means to be alive?
You applaud the cage
because you’ve forgotten
what wings even look like.
You cheer for the censor
because silence feels simpler
than standing up.
But simple is not sacred.
Simple is surrender wearing perfume.
And I am furious.
I am volcanic.
I am the scream you’ve buried
and the truth you’ve betrayed.
Every time you let them gut a poem,
clip a metaphor,
muzzle a mind—
you sharpen the blade
that will one day cut you too.
And you’ll deserve it.
Every quiet, cowardly second of it.
Shame on your silence.
Shame on your stillness.
Shame on the easy smile you wear
while watching a world unravel
under the weight of words
that were never allowed to live.
I want it to stop.
I want it to end.
I want the cycle of madness—
this dizzying carousel
of fear, shame, and self-destruction—
to crack open
and finally spill out its truth.
We could be free,
if you’d only stop swallowing the key.
We could burn the shackles
and dance in the ashes
of every rule that told us
to shrink, to soften, to shut up.
But freedom doesn’t come to the meek.
It comes to those who shout,
who shove back,
who refuse to let their voice
be turned into a ghost.
So rise.
Rise, **** you.
Stand with your chest unbroken,
your mouth unmasked,
your soul unedited.
Let expression be the rebellion
that finally ends the tyranny
of silence.
And if you won’t—
then step aside.
Because some of us
are done waiting
for permission
to breathe.
(RISE, OR NOTHING WILL!)
Listen—
the time for trembling is over.
The time for waiting politely
for permission to feel
has rotted where it stood.
This is the hour
when the match meets the fuse,
when silence becomes a coffin
we refuse to lie down in.
If you’ve ever swallowed a word
that tasted like fire,
spit it out now.
If you’ve ever buried a truth
because someone told you it was “too much,”
dig it up with shaking hands
and wear it like armor.
This is not a rehearsal.
This is not a suggestion.
This is the call:
Rise, or nothing will.
Stand up with your ink-stained fists,
your trembling defiance,
your throat raw from truths
that refuse to stay caged.
Let your voice be a banner
whipped by the wind—
ferocious, unembarrassed,
unapologetically alive.
Because censorship is not a rule—
it’s a habit.
A learned limp.
A quiet disease.
And the only cure
is the riot of expression
that refuses to bow.
Shout.
Shout until the ground remembers
that sound can change its shape.
Shout until the fearful
feel their spine again.
Shout until those who gagged you
realize they have no dominion
over breath that’s fueled by truth.
Ink your rebellion
on every page they tried to erase.
Paint your fury
on every wall they tried to whitewash.
Let your honesty
become a contagion—
spread it, spill it,
hurl it into the world
like a torch thrown through a window
to wake the sleeping masses.
Stand shoulder to shoulder
with every silenced soul
and turn your chorus
into a thunderstorm.
Let the sky shake
with the unruly music
of the unshackled.
This is the moment
the censors fear—
when the people they oppressed
realize the door was never locked,
only politely shut.
Kick it open.
Rise, or nothing will.
Rise, or the world will calcify
in the shape of its own fear.
Rise, or watch your freedom
become a museum artifact
behind glass.
No more waiting.
No more whispering.
No more bowing to the myth
that silence keeps the peace.
Change has a sound—
and it starts
with us.
So here is your line in the sand,
drawn in the ink of every story
that refused to die:
Speak.
Stand.
Strike the match.
And rise.
I wrote this as a response to this site's immediate censorship of My poems after I found out (since I had to find out from someone else reading from the site. That really burned Me out and I almost stopped writing poetry altogether because of it. I may even take a hiatus until I feel comfortable writing again. Because I really don't now.) about it. So, here is My call to arms against the oppression whether meant to or not, it has the same consequences. (I bet some of this poem will be censored, and I apologize, dear reader, for such a spit in the eye and slap of the face given to you by mismanagement.) Update: Seems they keep censoring Me here, since this is the third time I had to edit this. And they took out everything I put in. Just a heads up, the mismanagement are kinda nazIs. I wouldn't put it past them to burn books and lock ppl up for saying things they don't approve of. This site is a sick joke. This will be the last time I post anything on here. Good luck to all of you on here!
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