They never saw the nights I bled In silence— Holding my breath So no one would hear The way my heart cracked Under a whisper.
By Shoaib Afridi6 months ago in Poets
They tried to burn us down with their silence, their missiles, their headlines soaked in blood. But we are not the smoke.
Dear tomorrow, We don’t know if you’re real, but we write to you anyway — with broken pens and borrowed paper and hands that still shake
There is a kind of quiet that comes after sirens — not peace, but something that holds its breath and listens. In that silence,
They burned everything. The walls we built, the names we wore, even the songs we used to sing to the moon. And still — we rise from it.
They told us nothing could live here— Not after the fire, Not after the sky broke open And poured down ash instead of rain.
They sip champagne over fresh graves— Calling it business. Boardroom teeth chew through famine, but pray on gold dinner plates for souls they’ll never feed.
