#spilledink poems on Hello Poetry

Sara Barrett Feb 5

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.

"Pain as a Shadow" is a powerful exploration of chronic gynecological pain, vividly capturing the physical and emotional journey of living with conditions like endometriosis. This poem confronts the dismissal of women's pain in medical settings, challenging societal norms that normalize female suffering. Through visceral imagery and a defiant voice, it traces the path from silent endurance to empowered self-advocacy. The piece resonates with themes of ****** autonomy, medical gaslighting, and the reclamation of one's narrative in the face of invisible illness. It stands as a testament to the strength found in acknowledging one's own experience, offering solidarity to those who have faced similar struggles.

#endometriosis #womenshealth #women #woman #period #poetry #poem #spilledink #womenempowerment

dead poet Feb 3

the confessions of a dead poet

the noise never fades;
my poise takes the bait;
in the halls of liberation,
i submit to my fate.

i took a solemn vow:
to be ‘holier-than-thou’.
neither wrong, nor right,
i knew, until now.

i failed to see a cause;
the effect? - a terrible loss;
blinded by obsessions,
i never took a pause.

it’s been a while since the fall,
when i sprung to a brawl
with my virtues, unmasked -
and caved in to nightfall.

it all seems a blur;
it’s ‘bout time i concurred:
my reason to exist
shall always be a curse.

#confessionalpoetry #existentialcrisis #darkpoetry #lostsoul #introspection #melancholy #poetrycommunity #spilledink

Sara Barrett Feb 3

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

This poem is a powerful declaration of self-worth and defiance against societal expectations, especially for women. It explores themes of gender inequality, self-empowerment, and the emotional toll of constantly apologizing for one’s existence or actions. The speaker reflects on early experiences of being silenced and criticized for confidence, intelligence, and individuality, leading to a lifetime of unnecessary apologies.
The poem transitions into a bold rejection of these imposed norms, celebrating resilience, boundaries, and unapologetic self-expression. It is a call to reclaim space, voice, and identity while challenging others to confront their discomfort rather than forcing it onto others.

#poetrycommunity #womenempowerment #spilledink #poem

dead poet Jan 31

unbowed

if i could, i’d let it go -
long ago,
so you’d never know
how i felt
when you had me knelt
before the sinister
price i owe.

i gave you my world
with fists uncurled;
you gave me your spite
with a tongue that twirled
at the whims of a curse
so foul, it reeked
of a bane too vile,
and unreasonably
perverse.

can’t blame you, though,
the things i know
could rip the heart,
and have it show
the crimson shards of
memories jarred,
and a quiver so bare
from all the blows.

perhaps,
there’s still a place for you
in my heart, that’s yet
to know what’s true;
but i cannot allow
my head to bow
to scorn, and spite,
to name a few…

#heartache #betrayal #resilience #pain #healing #rhymescheme #lettinggo #bittersweet #spilledink #poetrycommunity

Sara Barrett Jan 21

Galaxies Beneath the Surface

We are galaxies wrapped in human skin,

Infinite and diverse

Short, tall, curved, angular,

Painted in every shade beneath the sun.

We carry stories like hidden constellations,

Symphonies unheard by casual ears.

Mothers, creators, dreamers, doers

More than the roles they give us.

Some wear scrubs that heal,

Some don suits that lead,

Some wrap aprons around quiet dreams

But always, there is more beneath the surface.

We are silent strategists,

Mapping emotions with a glance,

Untangling life’s knots with quiet magic.

We repair not only what has been broken.

We restore what is unseen.

We write novels at midnight,

Teach yoga or calculus with equal grace.

We climb walls others fear facing,

And drive highways under moonlit skies.

They see simplicity where we hold storms,

Calm exteriors hiding infinite layers.

Mother. Worker. Wife.

Labels are too small for the worlds we contain.

Stop. Look closer. Listen deeply.

We are not just women

We are universes waiting to be discovered,

Galaxies hidden in plain sight,

Architects of futures yet unwritten.

This poem explores the hidden depths of women’s lives—their untold stories, unseen challenges, and unrecognized strengths. It reflects on how women are often defined by surface-level roles—mother, professional, wife—that fail to capture the vastness of who they truly are. Beneath their calm exteriors lie galaxies of talents, passions, and resilience, quietly shaping the world in ways that often go unnoticed. This piece is a call to look beyond appearances, to listen deeply, and to acknowledge the infinite complexity and quiet power that women carry within them.

#womenempowerment #poetry #write #poets #poem #spilledink #hiddenstrengths #untoldstories #galaxieswithin #resilience

dead poet Jan 16

i cried a river

i cried a river;
it wasn’t enough -
to whet my wits,
and call your bluff.

i tried a thing,
or two, in vain;
i could not escape
the house of pain.

i lied to you -
didn’t occur to me,
‘t’d be so hard
to agree to disagree.

i hide away
my bother; i coy -
hush the man, and
play the boy.

i ride along -
for i’ve lost my way;
bide my tongue…
do as you say.

i denied myself
the right to speak:
i waived my voice
to the cackle of
the creek.

#rhymescheme #loss #regret #silence #heartache #solitude #despair #poetrycommunity #emotionaljourney #spilledink

dead poet Dec 2024

the empty pocket

hand trembling inside the pocket;
knuckles scraping against the outseam;
fingertips crawling into the deepest corner;
nails clawing at a ball of thread -
too stubborn for its own good;
wrist hair tugging at a rough patch;
fist holding onto itself;
palm lines lacking conviction;
fingerprints blaming each other;
nerves adjusting to the pressure:
pulsations full of dread;

the pocket stays empty.

#freeverse #micropoetry #flowstate #anxiety #emptiness #creativewriting #spilledink #hellopoetry

dead poet Dec 2024

a song of hope

there’s an emptiness that
consumes the world,
like a newborn babe does her
mother’s *******:
it needs the force of life -
to become a weapon for death;
as it kills the light switch
in the warehouse of hope;
as the sound of darkness
blinds even the bats;
as the echoes of piousness sink
to turn lawless mercenaries;
as the lantern flickers off
to the heaving of hedonism
that spawns in the void -
dark, and unconquerable.

until someone strikes a match.

#freeverse #lightvsdark #motivational #hope #resilience #emptiness #battle #creativewriting #spilledink #hellopoetry

dead poet Dec 2024

deep-seated

i shudder to heed the animal i’ve become:
once a wolf untamed -
now a lost puppy, squealing for his mum.

a saintly pelican, i thought meself back in the day,
with a bill so big as my heart would weigh;
now, but a vulture feeding on the remains
of unfortunate cows: with a crooked bill, i prey.

a scorpion’s sting could go in vain
on skin like a crocodile’s - that’s proof of pain.
a chicken on the run?... or the bloodhound that caught her?
nah - more like a pig for slaughter.

a rattlesnake in hiding with its venom depleted,
i long to emerge a phoenix: find my mission, then complete it.
purge meself of the twisted worm:
eat it - like a songbird, mistreated.

a lion on the prowl, i show no remorse.
i sail like a shark that's long been defeated.
anyway - i should get off my high horse;
the parasite’s more... deep-seated.

#fable #poetry #rhymescheme #identity #selfreflection #metaphors #similis #spilledink #hellopoetry

dead poet Dec 2024

the hour hand

i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.

#freeverse #time #existence #philosophy #metaphor #clockmetaphor #silentreflection #spilledink #hellopoetry #poetrycommunity