#censored
w0rbz [are] w
e
a
p
o
n
s
t>h>e>y
h
u
r
t
w-h-e-n
u s e d
wr0ng
*****
s"l"v"t
f=@=t
th3y @_l_l
c0m3
f
r
o
m
the
m0vth
but
c>;u>;t
th3
h3@rt
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC
He ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ love me.
If he did, ------------------------------------------------ he is --- my future everything.
I -------------- I will ----- love him again.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:23 AM 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.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 12:26 PM 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.
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 10:34 AM UTC
i wrote a brilliant poem
sent it in to be edited
it came back to me censored
so this is all that is left to read
Jul 8, 2021
Jul 8, 2021 at 2:17 AM UTC
If some words you say get censored,
How much meaning do the words have that don't?
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 8:01 AM UTC
There is this girl who is a joyful one.
Having no care about in her life for she had everything she wants.
Every single thing that she asks will immediately be done.
Yelling her servants to come and then chants:
"Servants of my household, hear me thee."
"Have my humble request be done immediately."
"Every word, every word, you shall agree."
"Gather here my servants for I have a wish for me."
One by one, her sevants came before her.
To hear her utterly rediculus wishes - they're silently furious.
Reaching their limits, if not for her father.
A gentle man with honor to which they are gracious.
Passing the message, they had enough.
Everyone gathered and devised a plan.
Dark comes in and it's time for her to be thought.
Heaven forbids for what they have done.
Early morning when the sun rose up.
Residents of the town heard thay the girl suddenly hanged up.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC
I guess you don't realize
Sometimes the truth is better not told
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
I am so sick of being censored.
Of not saying what I want to say,
If I want to scream ****
To the world,
who will stop me saying “nay”.
I am sick of being censored
Of not telling people how I feel.
I am sick of holding in my feelings
It does indeed make me feel ill.
So ill I fear I am about to snap
And let all of my feeling spill.
I am sick of being censored,
Of biting back my tongue.
Soon enough I’ll snap right through,
And there will be nothing left to be done.
-ALC January 4, 2019
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 1:16 AM UTC
On my school laptop certain things are censored
some make sense,
like **** sites, cursing, and violence.
but some don't,
like words such as self harm, depression, suicide
why is it censored,
this addiction, this disease, this ending.
should it be hidden?
should it be kept inside?
should i stop talking?
should i stop writing?
or should it be considered a cry for help when i type the words s-e-l-f h-a-r-m, d-e-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n, s-u-i-c-i-d-e
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
Freedom of choice
Un/Censored body, Un/Censored mind
No offence.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
Not near-sighted; not far-sighted
Just blinded by stupidity
By rich inhumanity
Lack of love in society
Absence of insight; omission of outsight
Just censored curiosity
Loss of credibility
Condemned abnormality
Futures foresighted; actions unsighted
The past, no punctuality
Death by immortality
Buried from reality
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Prejudice helps us
make snap-decisions
Labels help us
know what things are
Gender roles are convenient
Use them if you must
But don't be a c*nt.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC