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Best Poems Written by Yanna Phawta

Below are the all-time best Yanna Phawta poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Yanna Phawta Poem

The number that died

I used to slit my arms open like I was peeling fruit—careful, slow, watching the skin give way like wet paper. The box cutter blade was dull, sticky from God knows what—maybe dried glue, maybe someone else’s blood—but it still did the job. I’d carve so deep the fat would bloom up like egg whites in spoiled yolk, yellow and trembling. I’d watch it jiggle while “Mama” played, the strings shrieking in the background like a haunted opera house. Blood would pool in the sink, thick as syrup, and I’d stick my finger in it and swirl. Not because I wanted to die—because I wanted to see what was inside me. What the hell was crawling beneath the skin. Maybe an eel. Maybe a scream. Maybe nothing.
My parents told me to stop “acting out.” That music was poisoning me. But it wasn’t the music—it was the silence that did it. The way dinner felt like a graveyard and love was rationed out like medicine. They told me to smile. I told them I’d smile when the red stopped dripping. They called me sick. I called myself a disciple. Because Gerard Way sang in absolutes, like life was a wound you dressed in black velvet. He made agony theatrical, turned it into something holy. I cried listening to The Black Parade, and then I laughed. Not the happy kind. The hysterical, teeth-baring, I’m-still-here kind.

I pressed the blade in until I could see the meat wiggle. Until I thought something might crawl out of me. And when it didn’t, I cranked “Sleep” until the walls shook. I heard voices too. Just like Gerard said. They never shut up. They told me to bleed more. They told me I wasn’t real until the blood said I was.

But then “Disenchanted” played. And I saw it. The flicker. The -you. The faint heartbeat in the middle of the funeral. My wrist still open, but my lungs filling anyway. Because maybe the music was death. But it was also resurrection.

I wasn’t emo because it was cute. I was emo because I was bleeding to feel something. Because when the fat split open and the blood hit the tile, I was finally louder than the silence. I scared myself. But I was still alive. And sometimes, that’s worse. Sometimes, that’s better.
Pop feels like perfume on a rotting tongue,
glitter in the lungs where the smoke’s still hung.
Taylor cries cute in her radio cell,
while I bleed real in a five-star hell.
Cardi talks bags, talks labels, cash,
I talk to the blade in the bathroom trash.
They dress up pain in a synth-fed lie,
while I press down ‘til the nerves go dry.

Their heartbreak comes with a neon light,
mine comes crawling at 2 a.m. night.
A chorus of ghosts in my shattered head—
not breakup songs, but the actual dead.
And I laugh with them, cracked and insane,
’cause at least their screams match the sound of my brain.
This isn’t a bridge, it’s a bloodstained spasm—
a guttural hymn in a Godless chasm.

You dance in clubs; I twitch in fear,
you wipe mascara—I disappear.
Your playlist glows with soft appeal,
mine growls like wheels on hospital steel.
I don’t want healing wrapped in lace,
I want death songs to slap my face.
Not some pop-star princess crying slow,
but Gerard Way screaming go, go, go.They want us quiet—shiny, numb, and sold. They want pop hits and TikToks, voices dulled and cold. But we’ve seen too much, felt too much, and now we’re writing it on the walls in blood and black. The status quo is barf—plastic smiles and hollow souls, and a world that sells lies like candy in a sky full of holes. Music is dead, and politics is worse, and we’re carving our own verses into our skin, a twisted curse. This isn’t rebellion for show. This is survival, a brutal revival. This is a funeral for taste, a final adieu to a world that only pretends to care about the truth. You want a savior in a pop beat? We’ve got a revolution, fists clenching to the rhythm of chaos. You want a love song? Fine. I’ll love the part of me that refuses to shrink. I’ll love the ghosts that walk with me in black, and the way Gerard made grief feel like a scream, like a prayer. If the world wants me dead, let it write a better verse. Because I’m not afraid to keep on living. I’m just afraid it will keep feeding me the scraps of a poisoned song, calling that life.The status quo is a cocktail of bleach and regret,
spilled on the floor in a plastic cup, still wet.
Pop songs hum lullabies to the dead,
while they sell us a dream where we all stay misled.
Smile for the camera, fake your delight,
because truth doesn’t fit in a tweet, does it, right?
I’m tired of the polished, the plastic, the fake—
the world’s gone numb, and I’m wide awake.

The radio’s full of the same hollow tune,
where autotuned lies come to serenade the moon.
The politicians speak, their mouths full of ,
while we’re drowning in lies that they don’t admit.
So I cut deep into the silence, and watch it spill—
the blood of rebellion, the rage that won’t heal.
I don’t care about their #hashtag trends—
I want a revolution with no clean ends.

This ain’t American Idiot, it’s global despair,
because the status quo? It’s a nightmare we wear.
I want my wrists to bleed truth, my eye blacked by the lies,
and every song I hear to echo the cries
of a world that sold us out to the richest thieves,
leaving us with nothing but their golden leaves.
I won’t fit in your perfect little box.
You can take your filters and shove them down your throat, Fox.

I’m the scream you buried under your TV screen,
the bleeding heart that you’ve never seen.
So play your hollow songs, make your empty noise,
but know we’re the ones who’ll destroy and rejoice.
We’ll keep the rage loud, keep the anthem strong,
because we don’t fit in your world, and we’ve been here too long.

So here’s my wrist. Here’s my black eye.
Take a picture—maybe you’ll see the lie.
Because I’m not the one who’s dead, not yet.
I’m just the revolt you can’t forget.

Details | Yanna Phawta Poem

The cut that always bleed

I want them to tell their children about us.
Make them afraid of what love can do.
Make them sit up at night, wide-eyed, whispering our names like a warning.
Say-they clawed at each other's throats, they swallowed their own pride until it rotted inside them,
they stayed even when it tore them apart.
And in the end, love left nothing but wreckage.
The unwanted child learns fast— parents are dream-killers dressed as guardians.
A father's disappointment cuts deeper than any knife,
a mother's indifference is colder than a grave.
DNA is just a leash, not a family.
Look around—
a world full of broken children wearing adult faces, rehearsing adult lives, repeating the same hollow lines their parents did.
Go to work. Pay your bills. Swallow your misery.
Smile when spoken to.
"Act my age?"
What the  does that mean?
I was never a child, never allowed softness, never given time to grow into anything but the mess they made of me.
So if I choke on my own choices, if I make mistakes I can't take back, if I love like a sickness, if I break everything I touch-
Let them tell their children.
Make them afraid of ending up like us.

Details | Yanna Phawta Poem

The kind of stars pattern

Why?
Why do you shine like that?
How are you up there—
so perfect, so bright?
While I scream,
while I scream,
and all I do is fade—
I can barely breathe, I can barely stand the weight of this.

Each star has its own pattern,
its own radiant glow,
because every light is different,
every star has its own story to show.
Some stars are born to live in the sky,
their light is natural, steady, and high.
They burn bright because that’s their place,
the rhythm of the universe, they fall with grace.
They shine, and everyone believes it’s easy,
as if it’s a given—
they think they’re meant to last forever.
But we—
we’re the ones who are not meant to be seen.
The suicide star.

I’m not the kind of star that fits in that sky.
I’m not the one that makes you gasp in awe.
I’m the one that’s too far away,
the one that flickers,
and fades before you even notice I’m here.
I scream into the void,
Why can’t I burn like you?
Why can’t I glow and be seen?
But there’s nothing.
Only silence.

You don’t understand.
You don’t know what it’s like
to be the star that’s supposed to burn bright,
but instead—
you fight the dark until you’re consumed,
until you’ve lost all light.
I can’t keep going.
I try, but it hurts too much to keep pretending
that I’m a star that matters.
I’m the kind of star that no one will remember.
48,537 lives,
slipped away this year—
and one of them could be me.
But you wouldn’t know,
because my light isn’t the one you look for.

You’re the natural star.
The one that’s been placed in the sky,
the one people can always count on to shine.
They look up,
and they see you—
fall in love with your perfect light,
and they think,
“That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
But I’m not you.
I’m the one that fades,
the one that was never meant to be noticed.
I’m the kind of star that burns out quietly—
no audience, no applause.

People think they can shine,
they think they can succeed.
They think they can do this—
they can fight their way through the dark
and come out on top.
But they don’t know what it feels like
to be the kind of star that wasn’t made to last.
To be the kind of star that disappears
before anyone even sees you.
They don’t know how it feels
to scream into the sky,
and only hear the echo of their own pain.

I try,
but my light flickers—
it’s not the kind that lasts.
I’m just the suicide star.
The one that burns out quietly.
The one who’s never meant to be remembered,
the one who’s already forgotten
before they even finish fading.

But you—
You’re the kind of star that people fall in love with.
You’re the one they count on.
They think it’s easy to shine like you—
but they don’t see the other side of it.
They don’t know what it’s like to be this kind of star,
the one that fights to stay visible,
the one that can never truly reach the sky.

In one day,
I’ll attempt to burn,
to show the world that I was once here,
but it won’t matter.
No one will see my flicker—
I’ll just be gone.
And they’ll forget.

That’s the kind of star I am.
The one that was never meant to shine.
I never had the chance to be the natural one,
the one people would admire.
I’m the kind of star that fades
before anyone even sees me burn.
And when I disappear—
no one will miss me.
They’ll just keep looking up to you,
the star they were meant to love.

But we’re not the same.
I’m the forgotten one.
The suicide star.

Details | Yanna Phawta Poem

Animal woman, man

I once read: "100 women trafficked and enslaved in a human egg farm-drugged, violated, and harvested. The world barely blinks." The words sat in my stomach, heavy, rotting. Not shocking, not new-just another line in the never-ending horror novel that we call reality. And I knew. I knew this was going to start happening. They don't want us to have rights over our bodies. They want our reproductive abilities, our blood, our flesh-ripped from us, sold, discarded.
They have done it before, they will do it again. They will keep doing it until the whole world is made of screaming, and even then, they will find a way to profit off the sound.
The most disgusting atrocities of this world always boil down to men. Men in suits, signing laws with hands that have never known suffering. Men in basements, clicking through images of stolen girlhood. Men in back alleys, in boardrooms, in fields where no one can hear you beg. Men who strip bodies like machines, who see wombs as factories, who think "birthgiver" and
"livestock" are only a breath apart. Care about this? Care about them too. Because the same hands that cage a woman are the ones that slit the throat of a calf, that force a pig into labor again and again until she collapses from exhaustion. The same system that makes bodies commodities, that calls it "farming" when it happens to animals and "controversy" when it happens to us. And the world will blink. Once. Twice.
Then turn away. It will take a revolution to stop it. A reckoning. A purge. A fear so deep it festers in their marrow, so they know—they know-that the world has changed and it will never be theirs again.

Details | Yanna Phawta Poem

World is not beautiful

War isn’t new. Our world has been bleeding for centuries, crimson rivers running beneath the cities we call beautiful, masked by glass towers and neon lights. They build malls on buried bones, schools on scorched earth, paved roads across old battlefields where children once fell. This isn’t a fresh wound—it’s a festering one, hidden beneath layers of concrete and luxury, dressed up to sell the lie of peace. Because to create a “perfect” world, someone had to die first. To open a new road, they buried villages. To start a “new generation,” they ended entire bloodlines. They took land from those who never wanted war, stole it from quiet people who simply wanted to plant, sing, raise children—turned them into refugees in their own homeland. We celebrate progress in bright lights while mothers mourn in the dark. We marvel at steel and stone that stand tall on stolen soil, bought with the cries of the innocent. Men drunk on greed send boys to die with guns heavier than their hearts, force girls to kneel and obey, steal children’s childhoods by handing them rifles before toys—their first plaything cold and lethal, their first game survival. They slaughter hope, call it victory, and grin through press conferences as if the world isn’t burning behind their eyes. And every country, every border, every flag—they all share this blood-soaked truth: the art we marvel at, the culture we praise, the palaces and monuments and paintings—were all paid for by bodies of innocents, children who never got to grow, women who were raped and erased, men who were butchered as examples, entire generations sacrificed so others could stand on stages and sing about a “better tomorrow.” So don’t tell me the world is perfect. Don’t look at the Earth like it’s pure. Because beneath every masterpiece is the echo of a scream. Beneath every paradise is the stain of blood. And until we face the rotting foundation we all stand on—the bones and screams of those forced to die so we could build our “civilization”—this world will never stop bleeding, no matter how many flowers we plant to hide the smell.

Details | Yanna Phawta Poem

Is He Man Enough?

If she was the one who unbuttoned her blouse first, who closed the door, who whispered “Come on, don’t be shy,” and still—he said no. If she was the one who laid herself bare, threw herself at him like a dare in a quiet room—was he man enough to say he didn’t want it? To say, “I froze.” To say, “I said stop.” To say, “She kept going.” Considering the history. Considering the weight of men who have done terrible things to women. Is he man enough to speak against the tide and not be drowned by it? Is he man enough to sit in a room where everyone’s already made up their mind? Where “men like him” have always been guilty—even when he’s not? Is he man enough to say, “Although I am a man with the power to cause harm, she is a woman who caused it first”? Is he man enough to out her? To say, “She touched me first.” “She crossed the line.” “She said no one would believe me.” And would anyone? Is he man enough to survive being called a liar, a coward, a threat—while she gets to cry in court and call it regret? Is he man enough to be told, “You’re a man. Take it.” “You should’ve liked it.” “That’s not real assault.” Is he man enough to be laughed at while choking on a memory he never asked to keep? Is he man enough to carry her crime on his own name because the world still sees it as a favor?