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Lady Dra Poem
So many names on the page today, so many more gone— vanished into silence.
Does the world still care? I know they do.
I hope they do.
Children stolen, ripped from the arms that once held lullabies.
Teens slipping through dusk, running from homes that never saw them, or saw too much.
The ones who cared are left holding echoes. The ones who didn’t never noticed the absence.
But somewhere, a mother plants lavender beneath a window left ajar— its scent lifting like a prayer for the ones not yet home.
Somewhere, a name is spoken aloud, not forgotten. A candle burns in protest, its flame refusing silence.
We gather the fragments, press them into poems, into pages that refuse to turn away.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
There is a truth I can’t outrun anymore:
returning to myself was never one sudden awakening.
It has been a series of quiet permissions,
small moments of finally saying yes to myself
after spending so long waiting for that yes
from everyone else.
I am softer now, but not weaker.
I am slower now, but not lost.
I am clearer now
because I finally stopped trying to force myself
into shapes that were never meant to hold me.
There was a version of me I left behind
just to survive.
And there is a version of me
I am slowly finding again—
not because she was ever gone,
but because life taught me to forget her.
I am not who I was.
I am not who they needed me to be.
I am becoming who I was always meant to be.
And she is worth returning to.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2026
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Lady Dra Poem
I’ve been looking for my sanity.
Pretty sure it slipped out the back door
without bothering to shut it,
dragging my motivation by the wrist
and pulling loose the last few thoughts
I’d managed to keep upright.
Inside my head: wreckage.
Drawers overturned, lights buzzing,
memories on the floor like broken glass.
I keep circling the same rooms in myself,
tripping on old fears,
finding grief where I thought I’d buried it.
I’m so goddamn tired—
the kind of tired that sinks into bone,
into all the soft places I hide
because I’m still pretending I’m “fine.”
I’m worn thin from holding myself together
with shaking hands and forced composure,
from trying to speak through a fog
that eats every thought before it forms.
Some days I hear echoes of who I used to be—
a faint hum, something steady—
but it slips away before I can touch it.
Everything slips now:
hope, attention, the reason I walked into a room.
I check the corners of my mind
like I might find myself there,
wedged between the dishes
and the ache I carry like a second spine.
I talk to the walls because they don’t ask questions.
They don’t notice how often I fracture.
I’m stitched together with alarms,
with lists, with survival disguised as strength—
a patchwork of what hasn’t given up yet.
The static in my head has its own weather.
A glitching radio,
a low hum I can’t outrun.
Even the voice telling me to get it together
sounds exhausted,
leaning in the dark
catching its breath.
If my sanity ever crawls back,
I won’t ask for explanations—
just quiet.
Just a moment where my thoughts don’t scatter
or crash.
A little mercy for the parts of me
that feel rubbed raw.
Until then, I’ll keep going—
not bravely, not beautifully—
just… going.
Dragging myself forward,
one scraped-up thought at a time,
sifting through the wreckage
for whatever pieces still belong to me,
hoping there’s a version of myself in here
that remembers how to stay.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
They split the land, but not the pulse.
Roots remember what maps forget.
Every severed line still hums
with breath, with blood, with return.
They drew the map with ash and absence—
not to guide, but to erase.
Districts split like broken ribs,
each line a scalpel,
each vote a ghost.
We watched the ink dry on democracy’s skin,
while they called it strategy.
But we know the truth:
this is not representation.
It is redaction.
They called it strategy,
but we saw the autopsy.
Each district dissected,
each breath rerouted.
We do not consent to silence.
We are the roots beneath the fracture,
the pulse that refuses to be redacted.
We rise, not from permission—
but from memory.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
My thoughts are hard to hold when
I know they're hard to shape.
Like climbing out of fog
just to fall into more.
I try to dream,
but worry gets there first—
a shadow curled up in my brain,
wide awake at night.
Even sleep feels heavy.
Even silence buzzes.
Even breathing sometimes
feels like work.
Life, in general,
just won’t let go.
It presses in—
quiet,
loud,
never still.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
The darkness is outside,
waiting for something—
maybe the shadows,
maybe the weak heartbeat
of the flickering lights
as they stutter along the walls.
It presses its face
against the windows,
fogging the glass
like it’s breathing my name.
The cold leaks in
through every crack in the house,
threading through the walls,
curling along the floors,
slipping under the doors
like it owns the place.
I feel it finding me.
Moving slow.
Sure.
Icy hands wrapping around my bones,
pulling tight,
pulling quiet.
It settles in the spaces
where warmth should live—
the soft spots,
the tired spots,
the parts of me I pretend
aren’t hurting.
Tonight the dark feels hungry.
Not loud,
not showy—
just patient.
Like it knows
I don’t have much left
to fight it with.
So I sit here,
breathing in what’s left
of the warm air,
listening to the shadows shift,
feeling winter’s fingers
take their grip,
and I wonder—
Was the cold always outside,
or did it crawl out
from somewhere in me?
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
I see you in the stillness,
when the frost forgets your name.
In the shadow of your struggle,
I guard your flame.
I see you when you're breaking,
though your eyes hold steady ground.
In the hush before the storm’s heart,
your courage makes a sound.
I see you in the striving,
on the path no skald will sing.
In the ache behind your laughter,
you bear a warrior’s wing.
I see you—by the hearthfire,
through the veil of winter’s night.
One soul can be a lantern,
and yours was born for light.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
Little by little, the past dissolves—
not clean, not gentle—
but like candle wax slipping down the sides,
pooling into shapes we can’t quite name.
What was sacred disappears in chipped pieces,
quiet crumbs we didn’t notice losing
until our hands rise empty in the dim light.
The world moves too fast now,
rushing past the songs once hummed in warm kitchens,
past the pocketed prayers folded in trembling hands,
past the stories told only when the night felt safe.
And still, in that frail space between dusk and dark,
memory stirs—
a breath you swear you feel beside you,
even when no one is there.
It lingers in the places
where love once set down its tired weight.
A recipe whispered from a voice you almost remember.
A gesture you make without thinking.
A candle lit because snow is coming,
because someone before you always did the same.
No reasons left, just echoes—
threads time keeps pulling at
but can’t quite snap.
Yes, the old ways fade—
sometimes slowly, sometimes like a door closing too hard.
Yet we carry their remnants in the softest places:
in the chest that tightens at a familiar scent,
in the hands repeating motions taught in another life,
in the voice that trembles
when speaking of what’s gone.
The world keeps changing.
But somewhere behind the ribs,
a small ember refuses to dim—
a stubborn, pulsing warmth
that survives even the darkest years.
Tradition lives there,
in the quiet, in the bruised spaces,
in the part of us that still reaches back
even as everything else
slowly unravels.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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Lady Dra Poem
None of that was love.
Not the control.
Not the silence.
Not the way you shrank to survive.
None of that was your responsibility.
You were not the fixer.
Not the shield.
Not the explanation for someone else’s damage.
And none of that—
not one bruise on your spirit—
was your fault.
You’re unlearning that now.
Slowly.
Like pulling splinters from memory.
Like teaching your body
that raised voices
are not weather you have to endure.
You are naming the harm.
You are naming the pain.
And the naming
is a kind of rebellion.
You are stepping into a different kind of truth—
one where your mental health matters.
Where your boundaries matter.
Where your safety
is not negotiable.
This is not selfish.
This is survival
turning into self-respect.
This is you
choosing yourself
without apology.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2026
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Lady Dra Poem
Falling
to the earth,
I know—
it is time
for me to be me.
The ground opens,
a cold mouth of silence,
waiting
to swallow
or cradle.
I touch the dirt
and wonder:
should I plant myself here,
or will the storm
rip every root from me,
leaving nothing
but hollow earth?
Shadows gather in the soil,
closing in like teeth.
They begin their chant,
low and endless:
nothing grows here.
nothing lasts.
nothing belongs.
The words circle me,
slither through the cracks,
press into my skin.
You will not rise.
You will not bloom.
You will not be remembered.
The chorus thickens,
voices overlapping,
a dark lullaby:
rot, little seed.
sleep in the dirt.
forget the sun.
forget the sky.
forget yourself.
I press my hands to the soil,
but the whispers crawl deeper,
rooting in my bones.
Yet beneath their hunger,
a heavier voice stirs—
the earth itself,
not cruel,
but unflinching:
I see what you want.
I will hold you.
But the holding
may hurt.
I tremble at its weight.
Will you be there for me
when the rains come black,
when stems are broken,
when all I reach for
splinters in my hand?
The world is a storm,
merciless.
It does not wait for seeds.
It tears.
It takes.
It leaves no shelter
but the grave.
The chorus returns, louder now,
folding into the bones of night:
nothing grows here.
nothing lasts.
nothing belongs.
They press like winter.
They press like knives.
Still—
I press myself down,
deep into the silence.
If I rot,
I will rot as me.
The chorus claws,
rot, little seed,
sleep, forget, die.
But something small—stubborn, stubborn—
answers anyway:
a pulse beneath the ash,
a tremor in the hush.
And if, by some mercy,
the sky cracks open,
let the smallest green flicker
rise from my bones,
a thin, fierce whisper—
that even in ruin,
even with the chorus around my throat,
I tried
to grow.
Copyright © Lady Dra | Year Posted 2025
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