Victory Elunwa Poet Free verse

The Battle We Never Left

Some of us carry storms beneath our skin,
where silence is mistaken for surrender,
and every glance becomes a sharpened blade,
every pause, a verdict waiting to be spoken.

The world says, "It was nothing."
But to a heart trained by old battles,
nothing has never been just nothing.
It is the echo of forgotten wounds
returning in familiar voices.

So we build armour from suspicion,
polish it with sleepless nights,
and wear it into every room
until even kindness clangs against steel.

We answer whispers with thunder,
questions with barricades,
and conversations become courtrooms
where we are forever the accused,
forever defending crimes no one has charged us with.

Controversy finds us
not because they seek the fire,
but because we have forgotten
what it feels like not to expect the flames.

Every moment demands a response.
Every opinion becomes a summons.
Every disagreement must be wrestled to the ground,
as though peace itself
were something to be feared.

The battle becomes an addiction,
the reaction a reflex,
until the line between survival and habit
fades into a blur
even we can no longer recognise.

Those watching from the outside
see anger.
They see conflict.
They see another needless argument.

Few notice the frightened soul
mistaking every shadow for a hunter,
every closed door for abandonment,
every mirror for another enemy.

What a lonely way to live
always gripping a sword,
never trusting an open hand,
never believing the room
might simply be  just a room.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy
is not the noise we create,
but the quiet we may never find.

For there is no victory
in winning every argument
when our own heart
remains the battlefield.

And somewhere beneath the armour,
beneath the outrage,
beneath the endless need to answer everything,
is a weary soul
longing for one impossible thing:

A moment
that does not feel
like war.

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