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Poem

I stand at the edge of what they tried to bury,
A soul too stubborn to sink, too wild to contain.
I am the fire from ash, the pulse from dead veins,
A manifesto not to be read, but to be felt in the bones.

They thought silence would break me,
That the weight of their words could reshape my skin.
But I am the echo of every unspoken truth,
The one who rises from what they never believed could bend.

Every fracture in me, a lesson carved in scars,
Every tear, a testament to what they couldn't see—
How I bend, but do not break.
How I rage and still, somehow, find my way back to the light.

I will not apologize for the fire in my chest,
For the hands that grasp and pull,
For the soul that speaks with a voice that shakes the ground beneath.
Let them cower in their quiet worlds of compliance,
I choose to burn, to scream, to create from chaos.

In every shadow, I find my power—
In every corner of darkness, a new horizon.
I will not be erased.
I will not be molded into their idea of what I should be.

This is my manifesto,
Written not in ink, but in the relentless beat of my heart.
No force will silence me.
No wound will claim my voice.

I am my revolution,
My blood, my breath, my will to endure.
This is not a plea.
This is the roar of someone who has learned how to live with fire.

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