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Best Poems Written by Cherokee Dirlam

Below are the all-time best Cherokee Dirlam poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Cherokee Dirlam Poem

The last time you raised your hand

"The Last Time You Raised Your Hand"

This
is the last time
you raise your hand against me.

This skin,
this temple,
this war-torn body you tried to claim —
I take it back.

You thought love
was something you could twist at the wrist,
bend at the knee,
snap at the neck of my dreams —
but I am unbreaking.

I have stitched myself up
with the thread of every woman
who ever whispered "Not today."
I am their chorus now,
I am their hurricane.

You called me weak.
You called me small.
You called me yours —
but my name was never yours to speak.

My voice, a blade.
My body, a fortress.
My spirit, a revolution written in bruises that now bloom into banners.

I have learned:
that survival is not silent.
That healing screams.
That freedom wears scars like medals.

You built a cage from apologies and fear —
but I grew wings inside it.
I am breaking every lock with my own hands.
Watch me.

This house will not echo with broken things anymore.
Not my bones.
Not my spirit.
Not my future.

The last time you raised your hand
was the first time I saw it for what it was —
the beginning of your end.

I am not your silence.
I am not your punching bag prayers.
I am not your cycle.

I am the crack in the wall where the light gets in.
I am the voice calling every sister, every brother:
Stand.
Speak.
Fight back.

This —
is the last time.
This —
is the beginning of mine.

Details | Cherokee Dirlam Poem

Tired

I’m tired.
Not the kind you sleep off—
the kind that settles in your bones
like a storm that never passes.

I’m tired of checking the volume
of my laughter
like it’s a detonator.
Of reading the room
like it’s a battlefield—
every silence a sniper,
every glance a grenade.

I’m tired of memorizing exits
before I memorize names.
Of mapping escape routes
in the time it takes
to say hello.

I am not a soldier,
but I live in a war zone
with no ceasefire,
just white walls
and shattered glass memories
they called home.

I’m tired of calling fear
a sixth sense.
Of flinching at kindness
because it’s worn a mask before.
Of wondering if peace
is just the eye of the hurricane,
waiting to spin again.

I’m tired of carrying my heartbeat
like it’s a crime scene—
red tape, flashing lights,
“Do Not Cross” signs
on every soft place inside me
that once trusted too freely.

I want—
No.
I need
safety like skin.
Peace like breath.
Love that doesn’t echo
with the threat of fists
or the weight of silence.

I want hugs that don’t tighten like nooses.
Smiles that don’t flicker
before the rage returns.
Words that don’t bruise
just because they’re whispered.

I am tired—
but I am not weak.
Not broken.
Not yours to shatter anymore.

I am tired—
so I lay down my fear
like a weapon I was never meant to wield,
and pick up hope
like a revolution.

Give me peace
that holds me like morning sun.
Give me love
that doesn’t ask for pain in return.
Give me safety
like a home I don’t have to hide in.

I am tired.
But I am still here.
And that
is a protest
louder than any fist
can silence.