Ashes To Resilience
I was born in the smoke of silence,
where names were weapons,
and love came laced with barbed wire.
They said I was too much,
too loud, too raw,
a wildfire in a world of trimmed hedges.
But I learned to speak in embers,
to write with the heat of survival,
to stitch my wounds with verses
that refused to bleed quietly.
From the ashes of hate,
I rose—not polished,
but blazing.
Resilience isn’t soft.
It’s the roar beneath the whisper,
the spine forged in fire,
the poem that dares to exist
when the world says “don’t.”
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