Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i missed your voice

so i turned on the songs i always imagined you'd sing

on the corner of my bed


just to look for your voice amongst the others'

somehow i always find it
It was always the words I said.
It was never the way I said them—

never the way I screamed,
never the way I whispered,
never the way I spoke with eloquence,
sweetness, kindness, or grace.

It was never the way I spoke with wisdom,
or the way I spoke with knowledge.
Never the way I spoke as a woman,
or the way I spoke as a friend.

It was never the way I spoke
with tears in my eyes,
or with a clenched fist.

It was always the words I said—
the words you didn’t want to hear,
the words you refused to hear,
the words you refused to listen to.

Words that would have made you care,
that would have forced you to act,
that would have demanded you
to sacrifice something.

It was never how I said them
that turned you away from me.

It was always the words themselves—
that you refused to believe.
Sometimes,
you got to stand up,
speak out, and
get on your soap box,
Say what's on your mind,
reveal to people
your true thoughts,
they might be harsh, or
they might be kind,
just pouring out
your true feelings,
of truthfulness is
what they will find,
Be the Voice,
speak up, and be heard,
make it very clearly,
let people hear your words,
some people may oppose, or
may not even agree,
some, will comprehend,
while others will probably flee,
some people will follow,
while others will disagree,
Please do not be offended,
It is the decision of
PEOPLE and CHOICE,
You just have to BE STERN, and
STAY FIRM, and
JUST CONTINUE
TO BE THE VOICE!!!!


B.R.
Date: 6/26/2025
I am not the owner of my words—
not the master of my quotes,
nor the crafter of my stanza,
nor the painter of my verses.


I am simply the extension of the pen—
a vessel of expression, granted the freedom
to speak what aches beneath the skin.

But take away the artist who holds the pen,
or take away the pen itself—and the voice
of the artist, soon becomes the pen instead.
Words find a way to bleed through silence.

No matter how noble your intent,
to silence one’s voice is to sever the
soul’s right to breathe.

And still— they will return,
stronger than before; they will fight
for their word— words that once gave
them armour, and the pen, a weapon.

Not to draw blood—
but to cut through blindness.
A violent expression, yes
but born of peace, wild but tamed,
structured but never caged.
Because there is freedom in every
word, written or said.
Kalliope Jun 25
Recently I was asked to write something happy and while that seems easy,
I don't like being sappy
I rarely find beauty in things that don't bleed,
Tears and pain all over paper is much more my speed,
Should I describe a sunset?
And the peace that it brings?
The end of another day-
When the moon rises and sings
I could write about love but I've become bitter,
honestly a hopelessly hopeless romantic turned heart racing storyline quitter,
Maybe a thoughtful soliloquy about a bug, nah-
I'd think of men and that paints a mean mug
I'm sure I'll find something to pique my intrigue,
And pull me out of this pessimistic league.
Part reluctant romantic, part exhausted empath, part sarcastic observer, part moon speaker, part storm chaser, part lover learning to love herself.
eliana Jun 21
This ink, it runs.
This paper is stained
Tears run free as
I'm stuck in a daze.
I put this pen to paper,
To write the words
This voice can't deliver.
My heart is heavy
With pain and despair.
Can't breathe.
I'm fighting for air.
My mind is spinning
At the speed of light.
This pain in my life
Has clouded my mind.
The thoughts are deafening
Of my life you took away,
But after all my
Heartache,
Someday I'll be okay!
you can lose everything in a blink of an eye, and be lost trying to find the answers to why.
Ghostcat Jun 8
Is it me, or is it my ears,  
That keep hearing sounds so near?  
A pounding, a drilling,  
Like gears that keep spinning.  

I couldn’t stop,  
Nothing could,  
I melt, I break—  
I wish I would.  

With all the juice,  
I freeze, I sneeze.  
With all the germs,  
I ooze, I wheeze.  

Yuck,  
Stuck,  
This *****.  

Who would have thought this would start?  
Truth be told, this is no gold,  
Nor silver, nor bronze—  
Just stories retold.  

Hush—my voice, keep it down,  
It hurts inside, the things I drown.  

Stomp,  
Punch—  
What is this?  
The feelings I have, within.  

Full of rage, full of fire,  
This place no longer feels entire.  

Stop!  
I yell,  
I scream—  
This must not tear between.
(A Modern Draupadi Speaks)


I go by many names —
Draupadi then.
Ananya, Zoya, Meena now.
Or sometimes just, “a girl.”
The one on the screen.
The one they spoke of in whispers.
The one who should’ve stayed quiet,
or stayed home,
or stayed gone.

---

They say —
Look, how late she comes home.
Look, what she’s wearing.
Look how she talks...
Walks...
Laughs too loudly.
Speaks too clearly.
Lives too freely.
And somehow,
it is always her fault
for being seen
at all.

---

Draupadi was traded once —
in a game,
while kings sat still,
watched,
and chose not to speak.
Now, Draupadis are traded every day —
in boardrooms,
in backrooms,
in promises that sound like love,
in silences that sound like safety.

---

They don’t call me Draupadi now.
I walk into courtrooms,
not palaces.
No royal sabha,
just white lights, wooden chairs,
and cold stares.

No one rolls dice anymore.
Now, they roll footage.
Loop my silence on screens.
Zoom into my tears.
Rewind my pain
for ratings.

And still,
no one asks me what I felt.

---

They call me victim,
but not of my own making.
They call me brave,
but only when I remain silent,
when I am invisible
and unspoken.
They don't know that courage,
true courage,
is standing in the storm
and not asking for shelter.

--

They say they respect women.
And they do —
just not enough to believe them.

And when I speak,
they say,
“Why so angry?”

Because I am.
Because I have to beg for justice
with every breath.
Because I still carry my dignity
in a purse zipped tight
in case it’s questioned again.

---

I am not here for pity.
Not here to be saved.
I do not need rescue.
What I need is to be seen.
What I need is not salvation,
but for the world to stop
turning my dignity into a prize,
a coin,
a wager in someone else’s game.

I am not asking for rescue.
Not for cloth from the sky.
Not for gods to intervene.

I want
a place
where no woman needs to prove
she did not deserve
to be destroyed.

---

I was never your sacrifice.
I was never your symbol.
I was never your choice
to make.

And when I speak —
hear me.
Not as a story to tell,
but as a woman to listen.
A woman who was
and is
and always will be.

I am not a myth.
I am the truth
that stands in front of you.
And I am still here.
Because I am not a myth.


©️ Susanta Pattnayak
thepuppeteer May 24
Flowing across the page.
Everything comes to me at once.
The colors dance upon the paper.
Like a performance on a stage.

The only one in the audience is me.
Observant and thinking about the next step.
I am voiceless.
So I let the dancers speak for me instead.

As a voice for the voiceless.
They understand my heart.

Colors flowing across the page.

The colors dance upon the paper.

The only one in the audience is me.

Watching as it becomes alive.
Cadmus May 16
It doesn’t scream.
It whispers
soft as ash
settling
where fire used to be.

It lives
in the pause
before you speak your truth,
in the mirror
you half avoid
each morning.

It wears your voice
in rooms where you shrink,
calls itself “just tired,”
“just busy,”
“just fine.”

It is the bruise
you forget to touch,
the silence
you defend
with a smile too wide.

No blood.
No scar.
Just the slow unraveling
of who you were
before you believed
you were not enough.
Shame is a quiet architect of silence, often unspoken, yet deeply rooted. These verses aim to give voice to what hides in the dark and light to the path of healing.
Next page