#survivalpoetry - Hello Poetry

Birds plucking dirt out of my eyes— this vision scavenged clean. Inner angry voices circling overhead, and ugly choices with hooked beaks. I take the battle into my own hands, knuckles twisted with truth and lies— a courtroom built in my skull, thinking through crime eyes. There's a crime of passion— where the heart gets stabbed first. ***** it—I rip the roof off my thoughts just to see what leaks out. Broken ceilings, exposed skies, biting into life with a missing tooth— survival looks feral, when you’re far from home and even farther from love. So vultures kneel on barren ground, their shadows choking the soil where no seed dares breathe. But something violent is growing in me— ...a rose forcing its way through bone and dirt, thorns clawing out of my eyes to pinch my dreams, awake. Exotic? Ironic? No! Just a body crying more hours than it sleeps— starving in fields where weeds grow faster than food. Still; somewhere beyond this wasteland there has to be a place where something living can finally feed.

0

Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 6:22 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

THORNS IN MY EYES

Birds plucking dirt out of my eyes— this vision scavenged clean. Inner angry voices circling overhead, and ugly choices with hooked beaks. I take the battle into my own hands, knuckles twisted with truth and lies— a courtroom built in my skull, thinking through crime eyes. There's a crime of passion— where the heart gets stabbed first. ***** it—I rip the roof off my thoughts just to see what leaks out. Broken ceilings, exposed skies, biting into life with a missing tooth— survival looks feral, when you’re far from home and even farther from love. So vultures kneel on barren ground, their shadows choking the soil where no seed dares breathe. But something violent is growing in me— ...a rose forcing its way through bone and dirt, thorns clawing out of my eyes to pinch my dreams, awake. Exotic? Ironic? No! Just a body crying more hours than it sleeps— starving in fields where weeds grow faster than food. Still; somewhere beyond this wasteland there has to be a place where something living can finally feed.

33

I move through midnight, steel in my spine, instinct awake before any sign. Whispers shift and I already know — I feel the danger before it can show. Fear was my teacher, steady and cold, teaching me truths that survival told — how to read fractures behind a smile, how to sense what lingers hostile. Nothing slips through my watchful air, not the silence that isn’t fair, not the glance that lingers wrong, not the pause that lasts too long. My bones remember. My blood recalls. Every bruise built iron walls. Every lesson, sharply drawn, forged the strength I’m standing on. Hands reach out — I cut the thread. Lies unravel where I tread. Shadows falter, plans fall thin when they find the ground I’m in. I have known the dark too well, felt its weight, its private hell. That is why I do not bend — cycles break where I defend. Through chaos, through fire, through tightening air, I do not falter, I do not scare. No harm crosses the line I draw, no shadow slips beneath my law. I rise — not fragile, not blind, but sharpened, certain, defined. An iron shadow, fierce and still, between the dark and my own will.

0

Feb 20

Feb 20, 2026 at 3:59 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Iron Shadow

I move through midnight, steel in my spine, instinct awake before any sign. Whispers shift and I already know — I feel the danger before it can show. Fear was my teacher, steady and cold, teaching me truths that survival told — how to read fractures behind a smile, how to sense what lingers hostile. Nothing slips through my watchful air, not the silence that isn’t fair, not the glance that lingers wrong, not the pause that lasts too long. My bones remember. My blood recalls. Every bruise built iron walls. Every lesson, sharply drawn, forged the strength I’m standing on. Hands reach out — I cut the thread. Lies unravel where I tread. Shadows falter, plans fall thin when they find the ground I’m in. I have known the dark too well, felt its weight, its private hell. That is why I do not bend — cycles break where I defend. Through chaos, through fire, through tightening air, I do not falter, I do not scare. No harm crosses the line I draw, no shadow slips beneath my law. I rise — not fragile, not blind, but sharpened, certain, defined. An iron shadow, fierce and still, between the dark and my own will.

33

_Opening line_ — Walking from a dream to death, Waking from death to a dream — The dream that stole my last breath: Sleep and life stitched by the same seam. I am not a beard, yet so much Of living has been taken by the chin; Dragged through seasons shaping me, trimming me down by force than by vision. Trying to step ahead of everything — I am a shoebox tied with old string, Wrapped in a cloudy sheet of memories. Yesterday's tears gather like unpaid debts, When even the smallest step feels so _stiff_. Breath is the essence of life, But our breath is always leaving us; Know we’re only guests in these bodies, Passing through the hours as the hours do Their grieving — and every inhale reminds Us that its last exhale is already pre-planned. And so, waking from death to a dream, I breathe knowing each breath is a door Quietly closing behind me — I keep walking, Pushing forward, opening the next door Even as the last one fades. _Closing line._

0

Nov 27, 2025

Nov 27, 2025 at 2:42 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Dreams, Death, and the Next Door Forward

_Opening line_ — Walking from a dream to death, Waking from death to a dream — The dream that stole my last breath: Sleep and life stitched by the same seam. I am not a beard, yet so much Of living has been taken by the chin; Dragged through seasons shaping me, trimming me down by force than by vision. Trying to step ahead of everything — I am a shoebox tied with old string, Wrapped in a cloudy sheet of memories. Yesterday's tears gather like unpaid debts, When even the smallest step feels so _stiff_. Breath is the essence of life, But our breath is always leaving us; Know we’re only guests in these bodies, Passing through the hours as the hours do Their grieving — and every inhale reminds Us that its last exhale is already pre-planned. And so, waking from death to a dream, I breathe knowing each breath is a door Quietly closing behind me — I keep walking, Pushing forward, opening the next door Even as the last one fades. _Closing line._

25

i try to see the bright side every day, but deep down, i’m scared— my nerves frayed, worn thin like overused threads. i spent years simply surviving, keeping my head low, waiting for the right timing to make it out unscathed. but cuts and scrapes still touch the surface, and the light inside my heart flickers— on repeat. i know what it’s like to feel something, but life isn’t fair, and the pain i bear makes me question: will i remain broken forever? or will i break free from this cycle— free from the fear— and like a phoenix, take flight, rise from the ashes, and finally fix my broken heart?

0

Jun 29, 2025

Jun 29, 2025 at 7:27 AM UTC

joshua-phelps

THE PHOENIX

i try to see the bright side every day, but deep down, i’m scared— my nerves frayed, worn thin like overused threads. i spent years simply surviving, keeping my head low, waiting for the right timing to make it out unscathed. but cuts and scrapes still touch the surface, and the light inside my heart flickers— on repeat. i know what it’s like to feel something, but life isn’t fair, and the pain i bear makes me question: will i remain broken forever? or will i break free from this cycle— free from the fear— and like a phoenix, take flight, rise from the ashes, and finally fix my broken heart?

43