In Spite of the Storm

I walk where the shadows fall thick on the ground,
With silence that echoes, a deafening sound.
But still I keep moving, heart bruised but awake,
Each step a rebellion, each breath mine to take.

The world tries to bend me, to name me as less,
To cage what is burning beneath this distress.
But fire is stubborn, and I am its flame,
A soul forged in silence, refusing their shame.

There’s beauty in breaking, in scars that still gleam,
In shattered illusions that birth a new dream.
Don’t call me a victim—this pain is my sword,
I’ve learned to write poetry where others hoard war.

So here I stand trembling, and still I don’t fall,
For even when voiceless, I’m louder than all.
My wounds are my story, my rage is my art—
And no one can steal the fight in my heart.