The Fire Beneath

My anger is not just fire and flame,

It’s the echo of wounds that have no name.

A language of hurt, sharp and untamed,

Yet no one asks from where it came.

They see the storm but not the rain,

The raging waves, not the pain.

They call it fury, they call it pride,

But never see what’s locked inside.

If they only knew, if they could trace,

The silent scars, the hidden place,

Where every spark was first a tear,

And every shout was born from fear.

But still, I burn, still, I fight,

A voice unheard in the dead of night.

Not just anger—something more,

A heart too bruised to keep the score.