social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Fact or Fiction
Fact or Fiction Depending on who’s asking Tell me— do you want the truth, or the version that keeps things easy? Because I’ve learned answers aren’t always about honesty. Sometimes they’re about safety. Sometimes they’re about survival. Fact or fiction— it depends on who’s asking. If you come gently, I might hand you something real, something unpolished, still breathing, still fragile in my palms. But if you come with judgment hidden behind curiosity, if your questions feel like traps instead of bridges— then I’ll give you fiction. Not lies— just edited truths. The kind that fit your expectations, the kind that don’t challenge what you’ve already decided about me. Because truth is expensive. It costs vulnerability. It costs being seen without a guarantee of being understood. And not everyone earns access to that. So yes— sometimes I rewrite the story. I swap out pain for “I’m okay,” replace confusion with confidence, turn chaos into something that sounds like control. And you nod, satisfied, because it makes sense to you. But sense is not the same as truth. Fact or fiction— it shifts with the room, with the tone of your voice, with whether your presence feels like a place I can rest or a place I have to defend myself. Because the truth is— I am both. I am the story I tell and the one I keep hidden. I am honesty and hesitation. I am the version of me you understand and the one you never will. So if you’re asking— be careful how you ask. Because the real answer isn’t just in my words… it’s in whether I feel safe enough to give it to you.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
I SMILE TOO WELL
I SMILE TOO WELL A slam poem for those who mastered survival in silence I smile too well— so well you’d think joy lives here, like it pays rent, like it never packs its bags and leaves in the middle of the night. I smile like it’s second nature, like it didn’t take practice, like I didn’t stand in mirrors rehearsing how to look okay when I wasn’t. Because somewhere along the way, I learned that people love easy emotions— the kind that don’t ask questions, the kind that don’t interrupt the mood. So I became that. Convenient. Composed. Carefully edited. I smile in conversations that scrape against my chest, laugh at jokes I don’t have the energy to feel, nod like I’m present when my mind is miles away trying to hold itself together. And you don’t notice— not because you don’t care, but because I don’t let you. I mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. Of saying “I’m fine” with just enough conviction to make it believable. Of carrying storms in a body that only shows sunshine. I smile too well. So well that even I forget what my face looks like when it tells the truth. So well that asking for help feels like breaking character— like stepping off a stage I never agreed to perform on but somehow became known for. Because silence became my survival. It taught me how to swallow feelings whole, how to shrink pain into something manageable, something quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean healed. It just means hidden. And hidden things— they don’t disappear. They wait. They grow in the dark, learning new ways to be felt. So this smile? It’s not fake— it’s just overworked. It’s been carrying more than it was ever meant to hold, stretching across a face that’s tired of pretending everything is okay. I smile too well— but I’m learning how to let it slip. How to let the cracks show without apologizing for them. How to exist without performing peace. Because survival in silence kept me alive— but it was never meant to be my forever.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Filters Don’t Heal
Filters Don’t Heal A reality check in a digital world We learned how to blur before we learned how to breathe, soften the edges of truth until it looked like peace. A swipe, a tap—suddenly scars turn to smooth skin, and pain becomes something aesthetic, something you can like, something you can scroll past. We brighten the eyes but dim the story, crop out the chaos, frame the calm. We post sunsets over storms we never processed, captioned “healing” while the wound is still open, still speaking in a language we refuse to translate. Filters don’t heal. They just teach your hurt how to pose. They teach your sadness to stand up straight, to hold still long enough for approval, to wear confidence like borrowed clothes that don’t quite fit in the dark. Because behind the screen, there are nights with no edits, no undo button for the thoughts that echo louder when the Wi-Fi goes quiet. Behind the glow, there are questions no algorithm can answer— like why you feel empty after being seen by everyone but known by no one. Filters don’t heal. They just delay the conversation. And the truth? Healing is messy. It’s unfiltered mornings with swollen eyes, it’s breaking down without a soundtrack, it’s choosing yourself when nobody’s watching, and staying when everything in you wants to disappear. It’s raw. It’s real. It doesn’t fit into squares or seconds. So no— this is not about deleting the apps, or pretending the world isn’t digital. This is about remembering that your soul was never meant to be edited. That your worth isn’t measured in clarity, or contrast, or how well you hide the cracks. Filters don’t heal— but truth does. Time does. Honesty does. So take it off. Not your beauty— your mask. And let the world see something that doesn’t need fixing to be worthy… something real.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
This Is Not a Cry for Help
Silence Doesn’t Mean I’m Drowning I Learned to Bleed Without Making Noise Read Between the Lines I Never Wrote I Speak in Calm So You Don’t Hear the Storm Smiling Through Static The Quiet Art of Not Falling Apart I Fixed My Face Before I Fixed My Pain Echoes That Refuse to Break Not Every Broken Thing Shatters Loud I Made Peace with the Things I Never Said
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
