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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
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
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
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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