Ashes of My Words

Ashes of My Words

He burned my poetry,

all 180 poems, gone

each one a thread I wrote

from the tender age of 11

to the fragile woman of 17.

Pages once alive with my secrets

crackled into curling embers,

verses turning to smoke

that kissed the ceiling

and disappeared.

A silence of unshed tears.

I wrote of summer skies

that bled into dusk,

of quiet mornings

and storms that raged louder

than my heart ever dared to beat.

Every rhyme was a whisper

to a world I was building,

a place where my voice

was more than an echo—

and now,

all of it is gone.

I know fire cannot swallow

the pulse of a poet.

Words may burn.

The soul that shaped them

still smolders,

and from these ashes,

I will write again.

The Wicked Man

He, the wicked man,

took more than paper and ink.

He took my body,

my trust,

my voice.

His hands, rough and unyielding,

silenced my screams,

turned my words to ashes

before they left my lips.

But I am more

than the sum of his sins.

My spirit, though bruised,

is unbroken.

From the depths of his darkness,

I rise, I am better than him

pen in hand, I rewrite,

from memory ready to reclaim

every stolen poem of my life.

my dreams hopes and fears.

my laughter, and my tears