Louder Than Before

How often are we labelled as victims by those who never truly understand our struggles? This poem is a response to the ones who dismiss our pain, wear false masks of care, and think they can break us. It's a declaration of resilience, showing that every wound only strengthens our voice.

You call me a victim, wear pity like a cloak,
As if my scars are a story you wrote.
Yes, I’ve been wounded, but I’m not weak—
Each cut, each tear, made my voice speak.

You claim to be a "good guy," parading your lies,
But I see through the hollow in your eyes.
You play with innocence, mock my pain,
Buying toys, taunting, thinking it's a game.

"Why haven’t you seen the world of lust?"
I navigate shadows; you feed on mistrust.
You measure love by the bodies you break,
While I rebuild from the ruins you make.

You say I don’t know love? Maybe you’re right—
I’ve fought to survive, clawing through the night.
But you, draped in deception, claim to care,
Then chase fleeting warmth in another’s stare.

You try to shame me, drag me to the floor,
But each word, each wound, makes my voice roar.
You won't break me; you make me more—
Stronger, louder, than ever before.

So, who’s really the victim here? The one who faces the scars with strength or the one who hides behind lies and fleeting pleasures? Every wound you inflict only makes me roar louder, stronger, and more defiant than ever before.

Comments

Game Of Fire and Ice

Hey Mister, Why won't you play a game of Twister? I promise I won't play coy. Won't you love it if I were your only toy? You can be the Lion in the boardroom, Then make me roar in the bedroom. Let's play the game of fire and ice. You bring the sugar, and I get the spice. I am praying by myself these nights, Drowning my moans when the city sleeps tight. We can play the game of Super Sonic, And then have our own race over some gin and tonic. So find me, like an app can find a phone. No, I won't bring out my Medusa and turn you into stone. I have been getting over my fears, Learned to make my tears into spears. You can take me as you like. We can go until we hear the third strike.

Polished Sins

A suit and tie, that polished smile, Covering up sins stacked mile by mile. They flaunt “new love,” someone else’s child— A ready-made story, perfectly styled. They’ve “levelled up,” or so they preach, But on someone’s pain, they made their reach, With vows of loyalty, words so neat, While another’s screams lie beneath their feet. Oh, they “moved on” to brighter skies, Leaving someone broken, with silent cries. They mount new heights, they shout and boast— Scaling peaks on another's haunted ghost. So smile for the camera, flash your pride, Show off the life that you tried to hide. For we know the truth beneath your gleam— A hollow show, a self-made scheme.

Till You Sing

Some would say men went to war for women like you, But I would still choose war if it meant choosing you. You say you write in amorous lines, But I would let you be the woman of my tribe. You had your adventures Under The Buda Moon, But have you been loved past noon? So I can see you shine like a magical flower, In the quiet warmth of the golden hour. The invisible strings pull at my heart Can I do justice to your name? Caress you right, Till you sing like a Carnatic hymn. Inspired by the author of Under The Buda Moon, Veena Rao

Cruising Alone

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