Silence is no peace
it’s a fist rammed down the throat of the soul
a storm chewing its own lightning until blood sparks.
The quiet man doesn’t bleed inward
he hemorrhages in secret
his calm a deliberate self-dissection
his stillness the slow twist of a knife he refuses to drop.
From this gash of restraint
erupts a voice forged in acid
a laughter that doesn’t heal it razes temples
shatters every false god on its knees.
No gentle rebirth here
only a will clawed from the wreckage
teeth bared
hungry to devour what once choked it.
Call it survival if you want
I call it vengeance wearing silence’s skin.
YOU ARE READING
Hostile Take Over Of Self
PoetryThis is not a gentle return to self. This is a coup. The smiling diplomat and armored performer who signed every yes with his own blood has been removed by fire. No negotiation. Only burning. Masks peeled away. False identities torched. Polite lies...
