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Poem

Criticism flows easily from some.
To me, it often mirrors deep unrest.
Their barren days crave meaning,
So they lash out at those who walk in peace.
Criticizing becomes habit—becomes breath.
A friend—or so I thought—
Blamed me for loving poetry too much.
Yet this passion held me in the storm,
When everything trembled, it alone kept me standing.
I live without harming, without asking,
Whole and free.
I owe nothing but to God,
The one who grants me strength, breath, and health.
Before you point at others,
Face your own life honestly.
Don't speak of what you know nothing about,
Don’t judge what you’ve never lived.
We have one life, only one,
And we must live it by our own pulse,
Not by bitter tongues.
Criticism will always come,
But often, it says nothing
Except the emptiness of those who throw it.
Let them laugh, yap, gossip into the void—
Their venom can't pierce my armor.
Behind my passions lie scars,
Behind my silences, wars won without witnesses.
They see only the surface—
A smile, a stance, a racket.
But never the tears dried on the court,
The nights when the ground felt closer than air.
They speak because they don’t act,
They judge because they flee their own reflection.
I leave them in their mental prisons,
Their petty verdicts, weightless sentences.
Me—I breathe,
I cling to what lifts me,
To what keeps me standing,
Not to their drivel or half-digested frustrations.
They can’t grasp
What it costs to stay upright when everything pushes you down,
When it’s either that or sink.
Let them go on judging what they’ll never live,
I live, I fight, and I move forward,
Asking no one for permission—
Least of all those who trample what they’ve never built.

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