They ask me what is race —
I say: a border drawn in skin,
a lie that learned to breathe,
A wicked seed planted from within.
It’s not blood. Blood doesn’t know color.
It’s not bone. Bone doesn’t hold grudges.
It’s a story — told so long,
so loud, so often,
we mistook the telling for the truth.
Race is a costume
A made up competition
Of existence.
HIS-Story made us wear.
Prejudice is the cousin
Of racism for they both go hand in hand.
While they prevent every color and creed from coming together and joining hands.
Some days it fits like armor,
some days it cuts like wire,
but underneath it, every time,
is just a person
asking to be free
of the box somebody else built.
So don’t ask me what race is.
Ask what it costs.
Ask who it protects.
Ask why we’re still drawing lines
on a map that was never really there.
I was born before language could hold me—
before syllables stitched identity into skin,
before sound became a cage disguised as recognition.
You see, names are borders.
Invisible fences hammered into the soul,
claiming ownership over something
that was never meant to be owned.
They said,
“This is who you are.”
Handed me a label like a leash—
soft at first,
until I felt the pull.
Call me by the way I grand rise
after being erased.
I am the question that refuses
to collapse into an answer.
I am every version of myself
that existed for a moment
and then dissolved without apology.
I am the fire that learned
how to look like a flame—
just to survive long enough
to burn again.
I am the child who spoke in galaxies,
before grammar taught my mouth
to shrink the universe into sentences.
I am something
you feel
when everything false
falls away.
Because I am not something
you can summon.
but because I am too full
to be poured into something so small.
I am Lightning
I am lightning,?Spontaneous,?A powerful force of nature.
I split the sky open?With a voice of fire,?A flash that refuses silence.
I do not ask permission?From clouds or from earth—?I arrive, I strike, I am gone,?Yet never forgotten.
I dance between seconds,?A pulse of brilliance,?Fierce and un-contained.
I am chaos made visible,?Energy given shape,?A reminder that even the heavens?Cannot always hold themselves together.
I am lightning—?Fleeting,?But impossible to ignore.
I am Lightning
I am lightning—?not quiet,?not careful,?not waiting my turn.
I don’t arrive gently.
I don’t knock.
I don’t ask, “Is this a good time?”
a rupture in the sky’s composure,
a crack in the polite conversation of clouds.
I take the moment.
because I don’t shrink
I am release.
So don’t mistake my passing
for weakness.
Every flash is a declaration:
I was here.
I am here.
I will not be unseen.
And even when I disappear,
I leave the sky different.
Then it was before I arrived
All in all when I shift between the
Clouds I come alive.
If nobody listened—
would the poem still breathe?
If nobody listened,?would the words still matter??
Or would they curl up like burnt paper?
that never asked to understood?
What if the poet speaks?and the walls do not echo back?
Is a lighthouse still a lighthouse?if no ships are lost?
If nobody listened,?I would still write.
Because the poem
is not a performance?it is a pulse.?It is the stubborn proof?that I was here.
Because poetry is not begging?to be heard.
It is surviving being ignored.
Because somewhere between
in the deep unseen,
something always listens.
Maybe the poem was never meant
for the crowd.
Maybe it was meant for the one person
standing at the edge of themselves
On the tight rope of life
teetering…
Maybe it was meant for the future,?for the bones not yet formed,?
for children who will inherit unfinished sentences.
If nobody listened today,?tomorrow might.
And if tomorrow doesn’t,?the earth will.
I confront my bones
when they refuse to move
I empower my pen
when it refuses to write.
each poem proof that
We write our way
through tangled thoughts.
Refusing to be shackled
As I teach my soul to fly.
You wanted me to play small,
but I was made to come alive.
I write in the language of the unheard
I have spoken in tongues of the overlooked.
I have learned to plant seeds of Poetree
And harvest the fruits of liberty.
Still my poetry roots run deep
Even with my mouth piece close my
Poetic souls still speaks.
Revealing depths of what I longed for.
One authentic step forward,
One unapologetic choice to be
Exactly who I was meant to be.
I became revolutionary as freedom
Continues fighting for me.
A voice that rises,
breaking through the wall,
?Revealing depths of what I longed for.
For in this quest,
my truth is forged anew,?
A poet’s soul, forever born anew.
Each word a step, each line a shedding tear,
My voice emerges, trembling yet sincere,
I set my feet on paths both rough and wide,
I confront my bones,
Refusing to be shackled by the vast.
For every fall is fuel to rise again,
My pen became my pulse, my breath, my fight—
It carved confession out of trembling bone.
Each line a way to teach my soul to fly.
A thunder rolling from the page to sky.
I confront my bones
when they refuse to move
I empower my pen
when it refuses to write.
each poem proof that
We write our way
through tangled thoughts.
Refusing to be shackled
As I teach my soul to fly.
You wanted me to play small,
but I was made to come alive.
I write in the language of the unheard
I have spoken in tongues of the overlooked.
I have learned to plant seeds of Poetree
And harvest the fruits of liberty.
Still my poetry roots run deep
Even with my mouth piece close my
Poetic souls still speaks.
Revealing depths of what I longed for.
One authentic step forward,
One unapologetic choice to be
Exactly who I was meant to be.
I became revolutionary as freedom
Continues fighting for me.
No more waiting for a cue,
I step into the spotlight, the script unwritten but mine, the hero of my own unfolding story.
The plot twists are mine to navigate, the victories mine to celebrate. When doubt knocks, I answer with courage; when fear whispers, I roar with resolve. My story is vibrant, raw, and relentlessly mine.
So watch me rise, watch me write, watch me live fully—because this is my tale, told boldly and beautifully, every step a declaration: I am the main character of my life.
I hold the pen; I craft the narrative that defines who I am.
I make is a verse in my poem, every step a line in my script. The plot twists? I write them
This story is mine to own—no extras, no understudies. I speak loud, act bold, and live with purpose because being the main character means walking forward with courage, carving my path with confidence.
I am more than just a player in life’s theater—I am the author, director, and hero all at once. This is my story, and I’m ready to live it fiercely, unapologetically, and authentically.
No more waiting for a cue,
I step into the spotlight, the script unwritten but mine, the hero of my own unfolding story.
The plot twists are mine to navigate, the victories mine to celebrate. When doubt knocks, I answer with courage; when fear whispers, I roar with resolve. My story is vibrant, raw, and relentlessly mine.
So watch me rise, watch me write, watch me live fully—because this is my tale, told boldly and beautifully, every step a declaration: I am the main character of my life.
I hold the pen; I craft the narrative that defines who I am.
I make is a verse in my poem, every step a line in my script. The plot twists? I write them
This story is mine to own—no extras, no understudies. I speak loud, act bold, and live with purpose because being the main character means walking forward with courage, carving my path with confidence.
I am more than just a player in life’s theater—I am the author, director, and hero all at once. This is my story, and I’m ready to live it fiercely, unapologetically, and authentically.
The poet knows that broken things
still catch and hold the light,
that even shattered verses
can illuminate the night.
We write our way through tangled thoughts,
untangle knots with rhyme,
transform the chaos in our minds
to music, line by line.
Each word a small rebellion
against the urge to hide,
each poem proof that even pain
can blossom into pride.
So let the ink flow freely
through the labyrinth of care—
for in the act of writing down,
we learn that we are there.
Not lost, not gone, not broken past
the power to create,
but human, whole, and worthy of
the stories we translate.
A memory you can’t forget
A place that never felt like home
Is a conversation you never had
I want to write poetry that says something real.
Something that listens while it speaks.
Something deep that digests before it eats.
Something to move you without feet.
The ache of morning after a windless night
Is like a person you still hear in your head
A spoken word that was never said in a book that was never read
A tree split from the weight of waiting
The way silence pools under bare branches
A path made by things that don’t wear shoes
Branches arguing with light at the end of the day
When someone said the sky ends, and you believed it
You were told to dream big so you can achieve it at the same-time
The fake real world told you to be realistic.
The first lie that made your heart race after it was told to your face
The moment you realized grown-ups didn’t always know.
The night the power went out and didn’t come back the same
For the young dreamer who dreamed big
and let their imagination run wild
has come back down to earth
and conformed to a mainstream world.
For all aspiring poets, creative writers, bloggers and story tellers.
When you hit a moment off of writer’s block you can step out side for a walk , observe nature, people animals plants even a rock.
Once you return and flame of creativity begins to burn. You want to start creating but the ideas don’t flow right.
From one poet to another I say “don’t think just write.”
We tend to overthink, we tend to be perfectionists because we want everything we do to be perfect but perfect does not exist.
So don’t think just write.
You can edit later, let the words fall where they fall.
Ideas can be big or small.
So don’t think just write.
You can write about anything it doesn’t have to make sense.
As long as long you tap into your senses jus writing will help you hop the fences of what’s blocking your common creative sense.
So don’t think just write.
I never said I was an angel,
just someone finding their way.
Making the most of my time
to embrace every moment of everyday.
With broken wings and a resident soul
I thrive best when I am in a state of flow.
Where shadows mix with morning light.
It’s showing up for myself in the story called
My life’s what makes things right.
I never said I was an angel,
Just someone who refuses to fall
You thought you would see me crumble
But I’ve broke through every wall.
Don’t place me on a pedestal I never ‘asked for your
Permission, I wear my scars like battle armor.
You wanted me to play small, but I was made to come alive.
Like a warrior with broken halo who values peace of mind.
I shall glow as I grow behold a crown of Devine design.
I want to hear your voice
Not by will but by choice
I seek your guidance
For on you alone is where
I place my reliance,
Alliance, radical defiance.
I want to hear your voice
Above all voices that ever pieced
My ear I seek your final word what
Is it your declare?
I wish to hear your voice
To calm the turmoil of inner
dialogue and rumination.
I want to hear your voice,
the divine melody that guides my footsteps
Your words are the calm to all storms
Protection from external devastation.
I want to hear your voice
A light house and beacon
among all dark forces that
may come against me.
I want to hear your voice, the gentle thunder
that awakens my soul from slumber,
I want to hear your voice calling me to purpose beyond the noise of this world.
I want to hear your voice, the sacred song that resonates
in the silence of my heart,
I want to hear your voice reminding me I am never alone,
That within your words I find my true home
Scratches all over my body,
Pouring into the glass of wine that spilled over my wound,
Counting on my fingers, the night terrors,
Scrambling to find the door where my heart belongs.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.