#survivorpoetry - Hello Poetry

They call me defensive. They call me aggressive. They call me unpredictable. As if survival is a crime. As if standing for my truth is hostility. As if refusing to be small is chaos. I am defensive because every hand that should have held me hit me instead. Because every voice that should have loved me spoke betrayal and silence. I am aggressive because I have fought to breathe when the world pressed me to my last gasp. Because I have clawed through pain ignored by systems, dismissed by the people who were meant to protect me. I am unpredictable because trauma does not follow rules, because fire does not stay still. Because I have had to learn to survive in a world that refused to see me. They see a flash of my anger and call it hostility. They see a wall of defence and call it stubbornness. They see me rise from ashes and call it too much. I have been a child in care I have been beaten to my last breath. I have grown up in a system that could not see the truth because it chose its own story over reality. I have lived in the cracks of assumptions and survived the spaces they said I could not. I have carried every failure inflicted on me, every injustice ignored, and I am still here. So yes, I am defensive. Yes, I am aggressive. Yes, I am unpredictable. But these labels are not the fire in my chest. They are not the strength in my hands. They are not the love I carry for my child, nor the loyalty I hold for those who truly saved me. I am fire. I am survival. I am the voice that refused to be silenced. I am the truth they could not erase. I am rise. I am rise. I am rise. — Anonymous _Flame 🔥

0

Mar 3

Mar 3, 2026 at 4:52 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Labels Dont Define Me by Anonymous _Flame

They call me defensive. They call me aggressive. They call me unpredictable. As if survival is a crime. As if standing for my truth is hostility. As if refusing to be small is chaos. I am defensive because every hand that should have held me hit me instead. Because every voice that should have loved me spoke betrayal and silence. I am aggressive because I have fought to breathe when the world pressed me to my last gasp. Because I have clawed through pain ignored by systems, dismissed by the people who were meant to protect me. I am unpredictable because trauma does not follow rules, because fire does not stay still. Because I have had to learn to survive in a world that refused to see me. They see a flash of my anger and call it hostility. They see a wall of defence and call it stubbornness. They see me rise from ashes and call it too much. I have been a child in care I have been beaten to my last breath. I have grown up in a system that could not see the truth because it chose its own story over reality. I have lived in the cracks of assumptions and survived the spaces they said I could not. I have carried every failure inflicted on me, every injustice ignored, and I am still here. So yes, I am defensive. Yes, I am aggressive. Yes, I am unpredictable. But these labels are not the fire in my chest. They are not the strength in my hands. They are not the love I carry for my child, nor the loyalty I hold for those who truly saved me. I am fire. I am survival. I am the voice that refused to be silenced. I am the truth they could not erase. I am rise. I am rise. I am rise. — Anonymous _Flame 🔥

31

Death isn’t the end. It’s armor coming off. The body falls, the soul stands bruised, brilliant, remembering. We come for lessons too heavy to learn anywhere else. Grief. Betrayal. Powerlessness. Love that splits you open and demands you grow. Not punishment. Preparation. The strongest aren’t lucky. They volunteered. Some arrive quiet. Some land like thunder — endurance baked into their bones. The ones who survive what should have broken them. The ones older than their birth certificate. The ones strangers pour pain into without knowing why. That isn’t coincidence. That’s memory. Some return, not because they failed, but because they mastered survival and were asked to walk again with steadier hands. Not saviors. Not saints. Just warriors. They walk through fire without turning cruel. They hold space when rooms collapse. They protect without announcing it. They bleed quietly and still teach others to stand. Scars are proof, not damage. Heavy lives are trust, not punishment. Carry your light. Finish your promise. I didn’t land here by accident. And neither did you. Some break cycles. Some hold the line. Some walk into darkness and return with proof it can be survived. Call it resilience. Call it warrior. Call it truth. I am not here randomly. And neither are you.

0

Feb 15

Feb 15, 2026 at 9:26 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Not Here By Accident

Death isn’t the end. It’s armor coming off. The body falls, the soul stands bruised, brilliant, remembering. We come for lessons too heavy to learn anywhere else. Grief. Betrayal. Powerlessness. Love that splits you open and demands you grow. Not punishment. Preparation. The strongest aren’t lucky. They volunteered. Some arrive quiet. Some land like thunder — endurance baked into their bones. The ones who survive what should have broken them. The ones older than their birth certificate. The ones strangers pour pain into without knowing why. That isn’t coincidence. That’s memory. Some return, not because they failed, but because they mastered survival and were asked to walk again with steadier hands. Not saviors. Not saints. Just warriors. They walk through fire without turning cruel. They hold space when rooms collapse. They protect without announcing it. They bleed quietly and still teach others to stand. Scars are proof, not damage. Heavy lives are trust, not punishment. Carry your light. Finish your promise. I didn’t land here by accident. And neither did you. Some break cycles. Some hold the line. Some walk into darkness and return with proof it can be survived. Call it resilience. Call it warrior. Call it truth. I am not here randomly. And neither are you.

61

I pull a face when I see it pop up on my screen Another innocent "How are you?" I leave it unread Deleted Of course, he has no idea that I never wish to see nor hear from him again, lest I begin to tremble again

0

Aug 7, 2025

Aug 7, 2025 at 4:04 PM UTC

Aflame

"How are you?"

I pull a face when I see it pop up on my screen Another innocent "How are you?" I leave it unread Deleted Of course, he has no idea that I never wish to see nor hear from him again, lest I begin to tremble again

11

Bite into an idea— rows of teeth, tension tight. Crowded smiles feel so exposing— _but this one,_ it gnaws deeper. The tension between teething regrets and tethered faith feels so frayed, as if the cord was always a little too short to begin with. I’m not riding the wave— just swimming a little longer in my dreams; watching surfers sail off while I sink into thought. But I surf the internet, researching the cultivation of infinitude— _whatever that means._ Diving into unfathomable depths, only a few steps in and I’m already losing my breath. __Have I sprouted yet__? Most days, my sadness drowns in my anger. Then a spark of joy appears— _brief_, __fleeting__— but its glow only makes me so sad again. And that sadness simmers back into rage, and the loop begins once more. _A cycle. A seesaw._ A silent crusade to love myself again. But the journey never really ends. Even while searching for one. we push forward—again, and again— until we find a better end.

0

Jun 28, 2025

Jun 28, 2025 at 3:16 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Half-Surfaced, Half-Sinking

Bite into an idea— rows of teeth, tension tight. Crowded smiles feel so exposing— _but this one,_ it gnaws deeper. The tension between teething regrets and tethered faith feels so frayed, as if the cord was always a little too short to begin with. I’m not riding the wave— just swimming a little longer in my dreams; watching surfers sail off while I sink into thought. But I surf the internet, researching the cultivation of infinitude— _whatever that means._ Diving into unfathomable depths, only a few steps in and I’m already losing my breath. __Have I sprouted yet__? Most days, my sadness drowns in my anger. Then a spark of joy appears— _brief_, __fleeting__— but its glow only makes me so sad again. And that sadness simmers back into rage, and the loop begins once more. _A cycle. A seesaw._ A silent crusade to love myself again. But the journey never really ends. Even while searching for one. we push forward—again, and again— until we find a better end.

24