I wrote this piece as a declaration and a reckoning. As a poet and writer, my work is born from the ache, from the moments I was voiceless, the years I was shrinking, the fire I kept swallowing to keep the peace.
Writing became my rebellion and my revival.
This poem is not just about being a writer, it’s about what it costs to tell the truth. It’s about carrying stories in your bones and deciding to bleed them onto the page anyway. It’s about being a woman, a survivor, an artist, someone who feels deeply and dares to make beauty from the breaking.
I wanted to remind myself, and anyone who reads it, that we don’t write because it’s pretty, we write because it’s necessary. Because silence was never meant to be our legacy.
This is the language I carry beneath my skin.
This is the fire I refuse to bury.
I don’t just write.
I unearth.
Every word is a bone I’ve dug from the dirt of my past.
A fossil from a life I lived in silence, now resurrected in ink.
I am both the archaeologist and the artifact.
The buried truth and the one brave enough to name it.
Poetry didn’t save me.
It demanded I show up, bloodied, honest, and cracked wide open.
Sometimes I write with grace.
Other times I write with rage.
But always, I write with reverence.
Because there’s something holy about surviving with your voice intact.
There’s something sacred about letting your pain bloom into art.
And there is nothing more courageous than telling the truth
In a world that profits from your silence.
So, if you ask me what I do,
I will not say I am just a poet.
I will say!
I am a Firestarter.
A soul excavator.
A keeper of stories too wild for cages.
And if my words ever burn, let them.
Some things are meant to set you free.
Paragonwords
Paragonwords 