Spit Venom, Rise Unchained
I am the serpent, coiled in the chaos,Fangs sharp
I am the serpent, coiled in the chaos,Fangs sharp, dripping ink and ire,I slither through the cracks of society,Silent, yet my hiss echoes in your bones.
Watch me spit venom, not from spite,But as a testament to my survival,Every drop a story, every hiss a warning,A reminder that silence is never my choice.
I wear my scales like armor,Each one a scar, a badge of battles fought,My tongue a blade, my breath a storm,Ready to strike, to cut, to burn.
I have tasted the dust of forgotten paths,Crawled through the shadows of broken dreams,Felt the weight of a thousand defeats,Yet here I stand, coiled but unbroken.
Do not mistake my stillness for peace,Nor my silence for surrender,For beneath the calm lies the power,The rage of a thousand unspoken truths.
I am the whisper in the wilderness,The crackle before the storm,The fire that refuses to die,The venom that refuses to be tamed.
Watch me spit venom, see me rise,As I shed the skin of doubt and fear,Emerging anew, reborn in the fire,My hiss a battle cry, my strike a revolution.
I am the pulse of rebellion,The heartbeat of defiance,The breath of the wild, untamed and free,And I will not be silenced.
About the Creator
Hasan Ali
I am a student and poets writing ,I write horror content, I know a lot about history. If you are with me, you will get good stories from my work.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 19 hours ago in Poets
Why Black History Matters in America?
The United States of America is celebrating their 250th anniversary in 2026. I'm proud to be an American and as someone who was born here, I wouldn't imagine myself living anywhere else. This is a country where opportunities are possible. Where anyone can be successful in anything they desire to do. Equality, community, and togetherness are the backbones of what America is and should be about. However, we have an administration who wants to erase and disregard those who have made positive, meaningful impacts in our country, specifically Black figures, such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, and Maya Angelou. President Trump and his administration have been constantly complaining and fighting against what they call the "Woke agenda". They use this excuse as a distraction from other issues they refuse to address, such as the high cost of living, climate change, and inflation. That equality is dividing America, when in reality, it's bringing us together. Being woke is not tied to a specific political party. No matter where you stand on the political spectrum, you can still care about other people and their plights. Compassion and empathy for others isn't tied to a political party, either. We were taught as children to treat others the way we want to be treated and not judge others because they're different from us. Caring about others isn't a personal attack on your beliefs. It doesn't make you any less of a person. People who are easily offended over African American figures, past or present, or anything related to it, are grasping at straws. Current and future generations need to know who people like Harriet Tubman and Shirley Chisholm were, especially in the classroom. Black History is part of American History. It should be recognized, not hidden or forgotten. Besides, you can't shield children from everything, just because your feelings are easily hurt.
By Mark Wesley Pritchard 7 days ago in The Swamp
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.