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Shelby Womack Poem
They tell me the bruise is a blessing.
They bottle the dark and label it dawn.
Poison gets poured in crystal glasses,
and everyone clinks like it’s holy.
I stand there tasting the lie on my tongue,
wondering when we forgot what light feels like
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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Shelby Womack Poem
The quiet broke first—
one hit too many,
promise shattered like glass underfoot.
I looked at the man who was supposed to love me
and saw the dog that bit.
Not guilty—
I put him down like the threat he was,
no happy ending illusion,
just me bailing before the ship dragged me under.
You swore you’d save me,
hand out like salvation,
but your eyes screamed you hated me—
twisting the knife with every soft word,
control burning deep in my mind.
Broken open,
words failing,
apologies endless—
but I stand anyway.
Talk spread poison through town,
but I didn’t deserve that.
I hopped ship clean, head high,
no remorse dragging behind.
That escape turned everything into a battlefield—
centuries deep in my veins,
trust no man, read enemies quick
or they end you standing.
Soldiers at stations, armor locked.
No retreat.
This war’s what we’ve waited for.
Hey dad, look at me—
did I grow up according to plan?
Never good enough, chasing fire
instead of your blueprint,
every disapproval carving fresh lines.
Welcome to my life
where perfect’s a cruel joke
I quit laughing at.
I’m not okay—
barely getting by,
losing days to fog,
sleep to the dark creeping in.
Hanging on rails,
hiding cracks behind a mask
that’s thinning fast.
Tears could talk if they weren’t drowned out—
save me from myself.
I’ve lived in hell so long
it’s the only home that fits,
a lifestyle killing slow
but keeping the quiet.
Creature under the bed,
dragon at the window—
I accepted the challenge long ago,
turned savage to survive.
Rock bottom’s comfortable,
feet planted while the world panics.
Beauty in the damaged,
no fear of the boogieman—
he’s just an old friend now.
Loyalty heavy,
depression sinking teeth,
but I stay stuck,
ride or die even when it bleeds.
Raw and unfiltered,
hating the hate
but grinding through real
every single day.
A sinner like me,
still breathing through the wreckage—
love like this makes doubters choke.
Always by your side,
we’re going to make it this far.
Cross what’s mine
and lines are drawn.
Strange things love pulls—
ride or die no matter the storm.
Cross me and you’re buried—
I’ll kick dirt on your grave
and keep walking.
Dirtbag baby,
a little wild,
a little crazy.
Neighbors stare—let them.
I own every scarred inch.
In the end it doesn’t even matter
how far we crawled,
how hard the pressure crushed—
we’re numb,
still fighting.
Voices crack at 3 a.m.,
speakers shaking walls,
no whispers of alright.
We roar it:
these scars we claim—
we already own them.
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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Shelby Womack Poem
Outlasted
Not winning.
Not healing.
Just remaining until what meant to break me stopped.
Out—pulled from the lungs.
Last—thin at the teeth.
Ed—proof in the ache.
Dull metal.
Edges worn smooth.
Weight leaning down.
It stayed in the body:
tight chest, heavy limbs, eyes open—
exhausted defiance, still.
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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Shelby Womack Poem
Sky blacks out, cosmic hits hard,
hope stomped flat in the dirt.
Fate snaps like cheap thread—
a flare rips the night, desperate why.
They show up anyway. Scattered, pissed, half-broke.
Never a neat lineup.
Thor crashes down, thunder and beard,
Mjolnir howling, offended.
Lightning stitches dark; he growls old Norse
about shielding these fragile dirt-world hearts.
Iron Man’s late—repulsors blue through smoke.
Tony mutters, half-joke, half-prayer:
“Built the suit so it wouldn’t bury me first.”
Cap steps quiet, shield up, eyes steady.
Still hauling 1940s weight like it’s nothing.
Doesn’t preach. Just won’t let hope die today.
Hulk arrives without warning—ground shakes, screams.
Banner’s lost under green rage, hating what he is
but coming back anyway. Inside the roar,
a guy who just wanted to help.
Widow slips in like smoke—no glow, no speech.
Knives, lies, red ledger that won’t wash clean.
Hawkeye looses an arrow splitting wind.
No powers, just good eyes and bad temper—
wrong place, right time. Again.
Wanda twists chaos like smoke she can’t quit.
Reality whimpers under her fingers—
fragile, grieving, one bad thought flips everything.
Vision floats calm, crystal mind, patched heart.
Speaks probabilities. Nobody listens.
They just need him there.
Then it cracks. Messy. Shields clang, words cut deep.
Egos, stubbornness, old blood. They yell, scatter.
Some don’t come back right. Family’s like that—
bent, bruised, still breathing.
Sky tears wider. Worse crawls through.
One hoarse voice cuts static:
“Avengers… assemble.”
Not a cheer. A plea.
Gods, spies, monsters, machines, soldiers—
flawed, half-broken—drag back.
Not noble. Alternative just sucks more.
Power’s not hammer or glow or gamma veins.
It’s showing up bleeding, hating each other,
when hope’s a bad joke.
Old comics curl at edges, decades of ink,
arguments, second chances—they stand.
Not perfect. Not forever.
Just long enough.
Cosmos notices. Remembers the mess.
The stubborn, stupid, beautiful mess.
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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Shelby Womack Poem
autumn
autumn leaves drift slow
crimson carpets quiet paths
wind whispers old goodbyes
in my chest — a quiet ache
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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Shelby Womack Poem
Rain writes your name on the window.
I carry your half-laugh like a match in my pocket.
Streetlight melts the pavement to honey.
The dark loosens, just enough to forgive me.
Footsteps vanish, but warmth refuses.
One star stays awake, practicing your shape
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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Shelby Womack Poem
some days the world slips far away
like fading light at end of day
a quiet ache i cannot name
yet thunder stirs beneath the gray
Copyright © Shelby Womack | Year Posted 2026
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