I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

poetry

  • The Scrivener’s Tale

    I am but a humble scrivener, of ink and vellum born,I tend the wills of gentlemen – their fortunes and their scorn.The stacks are cold and airless, where the candle’s seldom lit,And ghosts of ink and parchment whisper, “mind the words you’ve writ.”They speak of pale Annabel, a clerk of modest wage,Who vanished from her

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  • Some Days I Miss the War

    I used to sleep like a solider,Boots by the bed, eyes on the door.Now I lie still in the quietAnd wonder what I’m waiting for.I don’t miss the fire or the wreckage,Just the way it made me move. When everything was burning,At least I knew what to do.Patched their walls, ignored my stress.Thought my giving

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  • Monument for the Missing

    The bricks were laid by borrowed hands,The railroads stitched with foreign plans.They came with hope and aching feet,Built every road – denied reprieve.And now the ones who dreamed the dreamAre ghosts inside the same machine.You’ll find their names on courthouse floors,Where mercy sleeps behind locked doors.They came to stand. They came to speak.To sign their

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  • Inheritance

    You left me a ring made of soot and smoke,A promise half-burned, a joke I never broke. Taught me “fire keeps you warm, if you just stop the tears.”I mastered the poker face; I practiced for years. You stitched your survival right under my skin,A lineage of flint where love should’ve been.Said, “Pain is a

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  • Shutdown Season

    The news keeps loading incessantly,even when I try to disconnect.Deadlines, protests, power plays—I hold them like shifting sandand wonder why my hands feel heavy.They say democracy is delicate,and so am I.My empathy’s overdrawn again,each headline a debt I can’t repay.I used to rage fiercely.Now I refresh quietly.Now I fold laundrywith the volume mutedand call that

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  • Still I Wake Up

    I know the headlines by heart—doom in bold, blood in italics.The oceans are rising,the rights are receding,and the scroll is endless.They say it’s selfishto want a quiet lifewhile the world is burning.But I’m done performing grief,done screaming my lungs rawfor a system riggedbefore I could read.Tired of giving namesto every kind of broken.But still, I

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  • Roses for the Grave

    Flowers on the floor, sequins in the stream. They sell the drowning girl as everybody’s dream.The velvet curtains draw, tragedy rehearsed. Pretty when she’s silent, perfect when it hurts. Turn the tragedy to treasure.Make my breakdown glitter gold.Clap for beauty in the wreckage. Watch me shatter, strike a pose. Curtains fall in velvet, cameras catch

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  • You Mistook a Mirror for a Molotov

    You call us thugs for marching straight,but cheered the mob that breached the gate. We raised our signs – they brought the noose.You said we riot – then turned them loose. We chanted names, you choked on facts. They carved their flags into the Capitol’s back.You banned our books, claimed moral high ground,while your “patriots”

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  • Vultures

    They lit candlesfor a man who played with matches. Called him a martyr for a fire he stoked. Grieved him like a prophet -as if his tonguewas not slick with gasoline. And the others laughed, relieved karma had chosen right. Cheeredlike blood was a punchline. Danced on his gravewith the same dead eyeshe once usedto

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  • Hope is the Most Dangerous Thing I Have

    I have a talent for graves. I can make a peace with any silence. Trace the contours of what’s gonelike I was born knowing loss. I’ve watched the light bleed out. Felt it drain until there was nothing left. And still -the spark. Small. Obnoxious. Persistent. A parasite with perfect timing. It crawls back into

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